


Highways & Byways

by Dicax_Asina



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Because Arthur deserves the world, F/M, Fingering, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Inspired By, Jackie and Wilson, Mentions of TB, Modern AU, Modern Era, Name me one (1) person that wouldn’t wanna fuck Arthur Morgan, Penetrative Sex, Reader has a baby crush on Arthur from the beginning, Smut, To be updated at least once a week, and I will be shameless about them, but she’s too oblivious to notice, by Hozier, good thing there’s antibiotics in the 21st century huh, handjobs, i dare you, it’s an absolute bop, i’m taking Arthur on a roadtrip and no one can stop me, prepare yourself because there’s going to be an abundance of fluff cliches later on, roadtrip au, that’s right, we shall see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-01-12 16:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18450518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicax_Asina/pseuds/Dicax_Asina
Summary: ❝Was that an invitation for me to go on a road trip with you? ❞❝Depends. D'you want it to be one?❞[Modern AU]In which you find yourself in the middle of an impromtu roadtrip, and realize that maybe spending some quality time with Arthur Morgan in the middle of nowhere isn't nearly as bland as you expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know author's notes are quite tedious to read, so do feel free to skip over every following one in this book — except for this one. There's one thing I want to clarify about this AU: It takes place in the 21st century, and the age gap between Arthur and John (who is the same age as Abigail — 24) is a tad smaller than in the original Red Dead universe. To be more exact, it's 3 years instead of roughly 10, which makes Arthur 27. I hope I didn't mislead y'all too much!

Of course you'd seen him around. He is impossible to miss, after all. Gruff, tall, dark, tough as nails, built like a brick shithouse and the most gorgeous eyes you'd ever seen on a human.

Arthur goddamn Morgan.

It is safe to assume that just about every woman (and even some men) that have set foot inside John's humble countryside home have ogled him at least once. You can't claim to feel exactly proud for being on that list as well, but you are on that list, and that is the relentless truth.

You suppose even the simpelest of pleasures come with a price, and this time, it's the damage your pride takes when you hurry to avoid Arthur's gaze when he looks up from young Jack's scribble. Your small glass of amaretto never fails to become captivatingly interesting during those instances.

John had used the pretext of it being his son's birthday to stuff his home with as many guests as the lovely little place could handle countless times now, and you can't complain. It's a wonderful occasion to get tipsy and laugh like an idiot while being surrounded by both people and the gorgeous nature in the periphery of Blackwater — who are you to say no to such an offer?

That had been the case every year until now, unfortunately. This time, things are different. It isn't an adult party with a pretext anymore, this time, it's a proper kiddie birthday party, with little, similarly aged guests included. As well as balloons. And cake. Though you don't mind those. You mentally curse the fact that Abigail had put Jack in daycare this year, where he'd made a lot more friends than you'd like to have watching you try to get drunk.

Arthur, John's best friend, has taken it upon himself to momentarily entertain the younger guests, and you assume it's so that John can have a word or two with Abigail in peace.

Arthur's squatting down now, in a weak attempt to not intimidate the children with his size, which seems to work very little for everyone aside from Jack. He tells the boy something, then ruffles the kid's head playfully, earning himself a pout from Jack and amused giggles from the other young guests. 

One of the kids — a young girl in a pink dress with cartoon imprints — runs over to a nearby table, retrieving a round piece of plastic. A frisbee.

Arthur accompanies the children to the front door and opens it for them, letting them all step outside before he follows under the insistence of Jack. On second thought, maybe you could use some fresh air too, seeing as the May weather is getting increasingly warm as of late. Besides, the sun is just about to go down — you might as well enjoy the view.

You go after them, but not before pouring yourself another glass of amaretto.

Arthur is standing on the front porch, leaned forward, elbows set on the wooden railing as he watches the group of kids run around wildly in the huge yard that John's home benefits of. The muscles on his upper shoulders shouldn't be so damn visible through the dark material of a black button down shirt, and it's as much intimidating as it is attractive. The setting sun is only doing him a favor, bathing both him and his surroundings in a warm, dark orange light. It almost makes him look...soft, though you even feel bad for daring to think of it.

You're not exactly sure what to make of Arthur just yet. He seems too rough for you. Too brooding, too dry, too calloused by whatever events have shaped him to be this way.

You hesitate for a second. Maybe he wants alone time and you're intruding? You haven't spoken to him much, not at this party, nor on any other occasions. You just know his face, his demeanor from observing it at numerous other events, but that is where your knowledge about John's best friend ends. You don't know John himself all that well, either, if you are to be honest. Abigail is the one you're best aquatinted with.

The veranda's floor creaks before you can hope to retreat, and Arthur glances over his shoulder, catching sight of you. He's loosely holding a cigarette between his fingers, smoke escaping from his lips and fading into the warm spring air when he huffs in slight surprise.

He rolls back his shoulders, straightening up and turning around to face you. He leisurely leans on the railing, but jumps back to his feet with a flabbergasted expression when it emits a loud creak. The both of you cough awkwardly, but he's the one that jumps at the opportunity to try and put an end to the situation. "You're...(Y/n), was it?"

In all honesty, you're surprised he knows your name. But you don't complain.

"Yeah." You nod your head and approach him, seeing as there is no going back now. You wonder if he's even aware of how gorgeous his eyes are, especially in that light. "You're Arthur, right? John's best friend?"

"Yes." He answers and takes another drag of his cigarette, then flicks it out into the dewy grass. "An' you're Abigail's best friend, that so?"

You don't know, truth be told. Abigail is...well, a smidge more social than John, to put it lightly. She has multiple people she gets along with well, so you won't exactly go as far as reserving that spot exclusively for yourself. But you digress.

"Sort of, yeah." You confirm, and reluctantly step closer, cringing when the wooden floor of the veranda creaks once again. "I'm just...I'm just here for the alcohol, to be honest. Or used to be, at least." 

"Well, they got a lot more kids 'round now. Since they started takin' Jack to daycare n' all." You nod in approval as he looks between you and the group of children, seeming to connect two dots you're not sure exist. "If him 'n Abigail sent you to look after the kids, then...'s fine, you can go back, if you want. I don't mind watchin' them, honest."

The offer is tempting. You could just go back to your previously lonely process of inebriation.

But at the same time, you kind of want to acquaint yourself with Arthur. Now that you've accidentally initiated it, it seems fair to continue.

"No, I'll keep you company." On the other hand, his offer could be a slight nod at the fact that he wants some alone time. Which you aren't going to deny either, obviously. "Unless you'd rather be alone, of course, in which case—"

"No, no." He gestures at the railing beside himself as if it were some prized spot on a comfortable sofa. 

Who are you to turn him down? You oblige, approaching him with a relaxed walk, setting your elbows on the railing as you look at the group of children running after the frisbee one of them has thrown. You catch yourself thinking that the life Abigail has made for herself borders on idyllic: perfect kid, perfect home, perfect place, and close to perfect husband. All at the fragile age of twenty-four.You're almost jealous, to be honest.

Rufus, their yellow Labrador, looks like he's made of liquid gold as he runs to catch up with the kids, then easily surpasses them.

Jack's dog wins the race by far, picks the frisbee off the ground easily, and sprints away with it. You have to hold back an amused snort, and hope to achieve that by bringing up the still full glass of amaretto to your lips and taking a sip.

Arthur notices, and hides a tight-lipped smirk of his own.

"How do you know John?" You decide to start with something simple to break the ice, and Arthur complies.

"Well, we...we both got raised by the same people. Guess we're brothers of sorts." He explains half-heartedly, slipping his hand inside the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a pack of cheap cigarettes. 

Now that, that is new. You didn't know much about John aside from the fact that his past wasn't one of many pleasures. Fate hadn't been kind to him, and Arthur neither, it seems.

You blink in surprise when he thumbs the pack open and offers it to you, though you don't exactly see the point in both smoking and drinking, especially in front of kids, so you turn him down with a shake of your head.

He's about to light one for himself when Jack sprints up to the two of you, followed by his small brigade of friends. They're all nervously kneading their hands and watching the both of you as if you're some kind of ferocious creatures they do not dare approach — though you guess that aura is rather Arthur's than yours.

"Uncle Arthur!" The boy stutters out through ragged breaths — he must've been running around for god knows how long — and closes the gap between him and the man in less than a second. There's an obvious trace of great urgency in his every move. "Rufus took the frisbee! And he won't give it back!"

"Did he, now..." Arthur squints as he looks around the garden, spotting the dog nestled somewhere between some bushes, happily chewing away on the toy. You're surprised when he doesn't complain, but instead offers to help as if it were the most obvious thing to do. "D'you know where the dog treats are?"

Frankly, the exchange borders on precious when Arthur squats down to his level and gives Jack the attention you'd only expect someone like him to give to a grown adult. Jack tilts his head as if he can't quite connect the two dots. "Yes...?"

"Want me to help you look for 'em, or do you reckon you can find them yourself?"

Perhaps he's not as gruff as you thought. Or perhaps he's a good actor. Or John specifically asked him to be nice to his kid. Or maybe he has kids of his own. You have no idea which one is more likely, and part of you doesn't really want to know. The other one really wants to.

"I can try." The boy answers almost proudly.

With that, Jack sprints inside the house. The other kids return to the yard and continue the chase in the hopes of retrieving the frisbee.

When Arthur stands up, he catches you staring once again, but this time, you don't retreat into your glass of amaretto again. This time, you're determined to be bolder.

"You're good with kids. You got some of your own?" It's both a question and a compliment, but he counters it with a slight frown regardless, which makes you wonder if you're treading on dangerous territory. You do end up retreating your gaze back to the beverage. There goes your bravado.

"No." He answers simply, and you have to mentally groan at the fact that you just had to ask. Part of you wants to blame your foolish bravery on alcohol, but you know better than that — a good chunk of it is still your fault.

"I'm sorry if I-" You speak up, but Jack interrupts your apology before you can hope to continue it. He nudges the door open, and trots towards Arthur, holding up the bag of dog treats as if he's presenting a trophy.

Arthur's expression softens when he looks down at Jack, and he takes the treats from him before cupping the back of the boy's head as he leisurely walks out in the garden by the kid's side. Jack has to jog to be able to keep up with Arthur, though the boy doesn't seem to mind.

The other children join them as Arthur starts whistling for Rufus, and you decide you'd rather not keep watching, lest you come off as weird. So you glance at the sky for a second, then to your far right, where the cars of John's guests are parked. Walking amongst them, you see a familiarly dressed silhouette.

Oh no.

No no no no.

You don't think twice when you throw back your remaining amaretto and break out in the fastest sprint you've witnessed yourself being capable of. 

"Hey—!" Your voice catches in your throat when you realize you've forgotten their name. They're your neighbor and your only ticket home, for chrissakes! And now your brain decides it's the right time to forget that person's name?! "Wait!" You shout once again, but they've already entered their car, and are driving it away before you can hope to intervene. Goddamnit.

Discouraged, you stop in your tracks, the last bits of inertia still driving you forward a few more steps before your inevitable halt. 

They're gone, your neighbor and only means of transportation is gone, and a taxi is going to cost a damn fortune, if a taxi even drives all the way to John's place at all—

"Shoulda told me you could run this fast, I would've let you chase down the damn dog." Arthur pipes up as he jogs to catch up with you, stopping a few steps behind you. "The hell you sprintin' like that for?"

"The— They...left." You answer, powerlessly pointing at the empty space that perfectly fits your neighbor's car. You try to calm down your heaving, but to no avail. "They left...and they were supposed to drive me home."

"Call 'em. Can't have gotten too far."

It's a good suggestion, provided you have their phone number. Which is not the case.

"I don't have their number." You explain haphazardly. "We talked through the Facebook messenger, and that one doesn't always have a phone number linked, and— Damnit."

Arthur sighs and crosses his arms in front of his chest as he follows your gaze to the deserted spot. You can't help but wonder if he considers offering to take you home. Still, you figure it's best not to raise your expectations and ban that thought from your head almost immediately. You instead tell yourself you could talk to John, ask him to help you figure out if anyone else would drive to your neighborhood in Blackwater.

Arthur's frame is still facing forward, but he turns his face towards you, making his stubbled jaw look even sharper than it already is. "Well, where d'you live, (y/n)?"


	2. Chapter 2

The offer baffles you, and you find yourself questioning your conclusion about Arthur Morgan all over again. Maybe he is more thoughtful than he lets on? 

Or he's trying to gain something from you?

You shoo away that thought from your mind. He's probably well aware he could have anything from just about any woman (or man) at this party, so why should you be his first choice?

Surely, he's just trying to be nice. 

He's still looking at you, expression more stone faced and neutral than you could've ever imagined it. There's nothing to read from it, no conclusion to draw, nothing. It's even more frustrating than staring at an empty page.

"The southern part of Blackwater, are, uh...you familiar with it?" You answer reluctantly. Arthur nods his head from side to side, lips pulled into a tight line, he's considering what exactly to do.

"Ain't exactly on my way, but sure. I can take ya."

His tone doesn't reveal much more about his exact thoughts either, and it's honestly starting to irk you a bit. You can't tell wether he's bothered by whatever he's offered to do for you or not, neither if he's actually eager to provide you with help. How can a man be so damn hard to read? 

"Thank you." You say, and he nods his head curtly. You decide that if he's giving you the comfort of taking you home, you should give him the comfort of leaving the party at the time he pleases, be that in fifteen minutes or after midnight. You don't mind staying at John's a little longer, to be honest. "We can leave whenever you want to, it doesn't have to be right away."

"Should be right away." Arthur answers, and you find yourself surprised at his answer. It's barely...what, six, seven in the afternoon? And he wants to leave already? "I gotta be back at Macfarlane's ranch by midnight."

That doesn't exactly provide any epiphanies on your side, but you agree with a shrug nonetheless. Part of you wonders if Arthur should be trusted, but then again, if he truly had bad intentions, he wouldn't be John and Abigail's friend. They wouldn't trust him the way they do if he wasn't worthy of it.

"Sure." You agree, then make your way towards the ranch, and Arthur follows, presumably with the same intention as yours: saying your goodbyes to the Marstons.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"You take care now, Arthur." Abigail smiles and reaches up to give the man's shoulder a squeeze. There's the smallest hint of a smile on his face as well — and you realize you're treating the sight like some kind of rarity.

John is next, they silently shake hands before they part, and simultaneously, Abigail hugs you. She smells faintly of that familiar perfume she always uses, as well as burnt wood from their home's chimney. You hug her back.

"And you too, (y/n)." She adds.

You nod and thank her for her hospitality and amaretto, to which she grins, and lets you in on the secret that she'd bought it especially for you. You feel warmer after that, and insist she, John and Jack drop by your apartment sometime. It only feels right to return the received kindness one way or another.

Jack and his friends are gathered around Rufus outside, and have made a cone out of paper, which they've strapped to his forehead. He's a unicorn now, apparently. The dog doesn't seem to mind the accessory as long as the kids make up for it with attention and belly rubs, which earns a giggle from you, and a curious glance from Arthur.

Both you and Arthur wave at the boy, and he returns the gesture back, then resumes whatever game he was playing before.

Arthur wordlessly leads you to the assemblage of cars, simultaneously fishing a car key out of the pocket of his blue jeans. A huge, matte burgundy pickup truck awaits. It looks like some kind of intimidating, mythical object, with its rusty doors but welcoming color. Hell, it almost looks alive.

You're surprised when Arthur doesn't walk to the driver's side, but the other one, and opens the door for you. You raise a brow, to which he clarifies: "It's, uh...this door's a bit more rusty, 'n difficult to open. Figured I'd..." He gestures at the seat. 

You smile. Perhaps Arthur Morgan not as coarse as you'd thought. "Thank you." 

"Sure." He plainly answers before returning to the drivers seat, plopping down on it and starting the engine. It's obviously worn judging by the sounds it makes, but it sounds warm at the same time, like an animal that is waking up after a long slumber. As he drives out the parking lot, you use the time to take in your new surroundings.

His radio is ancient — and there are numerous cassettes between the two front seats, which are both covered in brown leather. It's cozily vintage, and part of you wonders if that could ever be said about Arthur' as well. You suppose you'll have to see, or maybe find out, but you are starting to realize one thing quickly: there's far more layers to his character than you initially thought.

"How'd you get to know Abigail?" 

The question is sudden, enough to violently rip you out of your thoughts, but welcome nonetheless. It provides the confirmation you'd been subconsciously looking for: Arthur doesn't think of you as some kind of dreadful chore he accidentally signed up for. Hopefully. And even if he is, at least he wants to talk to the drudgery that he potentially considers you to be.

"I mean, we were good friends since highschool. We kind of parted ways after that, but during my second year of college, well...we stumbled across each-other in town, went out for a coffee, and she told me she was pregnant, and that the father had left. Her mom wasn't going to help, she said, so I decided I should."

"Yeah." Arthur nods his head, eyes trained on the road. "John was a damn bastard, alright. To leave her hangin' like that, it's a nasty thing to do."

"He could've been scared. I can see where he's coming from, in a way." You shrug. Sure, John's defense is flimsy, but Abigail may have done the same if it wasn't for her being the one that was carrying the baby.

"He left for a year. Disappeared like he ain't ever even existed, didn't answer any phone calls or texts." Arthur insists, shifting in his seat when the light of the setting sun catches in his eyes. 

"I'm glad they worked it out." You admit, then sink down into the seat and shield your eyes from the light. "And all in five years, it's pretty impressive."

Arthur confirms it with a nod of his head. "John Marston's a damn lucky man if I've ever known one." A smirk tugs on one corner of his mouth. " 'side from the scars, of course."

He's smiling, that's a step forward. Right?

"How'd he even get those?" You ask and look at him in wonder when he chuckles. It's a very pleasant sight. The dark orange sunlight catches in his stubble and lashes, turning them bright blonde, and lighting up his irises as if they're made of blued steel. 

"He ain't ever told you? Or did he make up somethin'?"

"Maybe he told me and I was too drunk to remember." You admit, to which he snorts in amusement. 

"Or maybe you didn't want to remember." Arthur pauses, shrugs, then looks at you with the most lighthearted expression you've seen on him. "Which is fair enough." 

"Do tell, though." You insist, and he complies almost eagerly. 

"Well, we was still kids. I was sixteen, seventeen maybe, and John was 'round twelve or thirteen or so. Both of us in the prime of our stupidity." He pauses, focuses on passing a slower car on the road, then returns to the story. "We decided we was gonna go campin'. Just the two of us 'n the Mexican boy next door, Javier. It was fun 'n all, but me 'n the Mexican kid had come by some alcohol and knocked ourselves out, so we were spent for the night 'n went to sleep early. John stayed by the campfire for a bit longer."

A few sentences into Arthur's anecdote, you come to realize this man is a born story teller. You don't know exactly how to describe his approach to narration, but it's bewitching to witness: sprinkled with dry, sarcastic remarks, and the unique ability of painting words inside your head with outrageous ease and simple words. 

"I remember wakin' up in the mornin' with a bit of a headache, and realizing John wasn't to be found. Woke up Javier, 'n we started lookin' for him. We found John in a ditch nearby a few minutes later, mainly because he was screamin' as if his life damn well depended on it. His face was all scarred up. Apparently a pack o' wild dogs had tried stealin' some food from us the night before, and he thought it'd be a good idea to fight 'em off with his bare fists."

You slapped a hand over your mouth, but still found yourself giggling uncontrollably. This was no laughing matter, goddamnit! A thirteen year old boy getting his visage ruined for the rest of his life was not amusing, but Christ, the mental image of a preteen John Marston trying to pummel down a pack of wild dogs with his bare fists over some scraps of food was certainly something else.

"Sorry..." You force out between giggles. "I really am, I just—"

Arthur grins sympathetically. "You got nothin' to apologize for, me 'n Javier laughed our faces off in the hospital waitin' rooms too, until Hosea showed up."

The both of you chuckle for a few more seconds, and you find yourself genuinely enjoying his presence. Who would have thought the gruff, rough and tough Arthur Morgan has a knack for storytelling? And not only that, but he can also make you laugh?

He leans back in his seat, only one hand still loosely holding the steering wheel as he navigates the practically empty highway.

"A story o' yours in exchange for this one?"

How could you say no to that?


	3. Chapter 3

One would think listening could not be counted amongst Arthur Morgan's fortes. But it is. That strange aspect is both a surprise and a blessing.

"...I guess I always preferred nature." You explain, tilting your head to one side to stretch your sore neck. You look out the window, at the huge city that Blackwater is, and at the rather poor neighborhood you're in at the moment. The early evening darkness that has already settled in is not doing it any favors. "Even though I'm pretty much stuck in an apartment right in the middle of a city right now, so talk about irony."

Arthur huffs in what you guess is both sympathy and amusement.

"Used to have a little apartment of my own in Blackwater as well, though it was up north and a bit further from the city centre." He confesses, tracing his thumb over the steering wheel as he talks. "But I guess it just...I dunno. Got too hectic. T'was a pretty bad time in my life, I was havin' health issues too, John had just left, I'd just found out 'bout Abigail...everythin' just started pilin' up. After a while, I decided I had had enough. Gathered up all the money I still had, bought a piece of land jus' outside Blackwater, and moved in."

You want to ask about what kind of health issues he'd been struggling with, but you refrain. Asking about kids had provided you with a one way ticket to awkwardness town, and you suppose that would be the case with this subject as well.

"I think I would've done that too, if it weren't for every house in the periphery of Blackwater looking like a shabby latrine I wouldn't even send my worst enemy into." You only realize the sentence's potential offensiveness after saying it out loud, and immediately want to sink into the leathered seat. Goddamnit. "I-I mean—! Not all houses, at least, but just the ones I've seen so far are—"

A relieved exhale escapes your mouth when Arthur huffs in amusement. "Don't worry, I ain't takin' no offense. 'S actually true. Mine was in a pretty bad state, and John's, well...John's looked like a proper shithouse."

The both of you chuckle at that.

"Seeing how lovely it looks now, that's kind of hard to believe." You argue, and Arthur smiles faintly with one corner of his mouth.

"Seein' as I helped rebuild it, I'll take that as compliment." 

That's both a surprise and something you're disappointed in yourself for not figuring out sooner. Of course he helped build it, he's John's best friend and brother of sorts.

"Really?" You ask nonetheless, and he nods, albeit awkwardly.

"I was still recoverin' from them health issues, so I didn't do all the work, but yes." Arthur looks at the city roads as if he can visualize some distant, but very much pleasant memory right before his eyes. "Me, John, Hosea, and a friend of ours, Charles built it. Uncle kind of helped too, I guess."

It's hard to imagine Uncle working, considering that all you've witnessed him do is sit around, leech off of the Marstons, complain about Lumbago, and say the occasional decent joke, but you'll take Arthur's word for it. You kind of have to.

He's mentioned Hosea before, too, though he hasn't explained his affiliation with him. Seeing how fondly he talks of the man, however, leads you to believe he's some sort of father figure to Arthur.

"Guess now I'll know who to call if the need for a countryside house arises." You joke, and glance to your side, out the window. You're slowly but surely getting closer to the neighborhood you live in. "Though seeing how things are at the moment, the only thing I can afford right now is a week off of work."

Arthur nods his head and sighs. "Guess we're in the same boat. I need to get outta this damn place for a while too, got somethin' planned for next week."

"Props to you for that." You shrug. "I'll probably end up spending a week locked up in my apartment while doing nothing and feeling sorry for for myself."

It's obvious that the wheels in his head are turning too quickly for you to process what exactly is on his mind, but you're almost sure it has something to do with you, considering the way he takes his eyes off the road and peeks at you for a split second. You can't help but wonder what exactly it is that he's thinking about.

A glance outside the window gives you courage. You're only a good three minutes away from your apartment — meaning that even if you do end up making the situation awkward by asking, you won't have to endure it for long. There's nothing to lose.

"Penny for your thoughts, Arthur?" You speak up, and he blinks in surprise at your boldness.

But he complies after a short, but deep breath.

"Was thinkin'. I'm— ...well, my vacation plan is to drive 'n camp around New Austin for the upcoming week. Guess it's a roadtrip of sorts. Gets kinda lonely sometimes, seein' as it's just me and the wilderness, so, I was..." He pauses for at least five seconds, sighs, then stops at a red light. "Never mind. Jus' show me where I need to make a left to get you home."

Had he...considered inviting you on a roadtrip? With him? 

It's more tempting than you'd like to admit. Not only because your only company would be Arthur, but because you'd been dying to get away from the city tumult. To finally relax. And maybe...maybe this is your chance.

"Was that a invitation for me to go on a roadtrip with you?" You ask. Arthur's breathing stutters, and he shrugs, trying his best to seem nonchalant. It's more than adorable to witness the man you'd considered dark and brooding not more than three hours ago act...well, like this.

"Depends. D'you want it to be one?" 

His voice is steady, unlike his demeanor, who is a bit more treacherous of his thoughts.

You nod your head and smirk. "Yes, please."

The small smile that blossoms on his face is priceless, and the perfect response.


	4. Chapter 4

"Got everythin'?" Arthur asks, one shoulder leaned against the wall by the door of your small apartment. He has driven the two of you to your humble home so that you can fetch clothes for a week, so here you are now: dragging a bag of essentials out of your bedroom. 

"Think so." You huff, then lift the tightly packed carrier, walking towards the exit, where he awaits. Arthur offers to take your bag for you, but you decline, so he doesn't insist further. Instead, he takes one last look at your apartment before trotting out after you. He waits for you to lock the door, and does end up intervening when the bag slides off your shoulder and stops on your forearm, pulling it down. That makes locking the door even more of a pain than it already is, and you thank Arthur for his help.

It's hard to focus on something as trivial as locking the door when your heart is hammering so wildly in your chest, and you yourself are a bundle of adrenaline and excitement.

Are you going on a roadtrip with someone that's practically been a stranger to you not more than three hours ago? Yes. Is it a foolish thing to do? Perhaps. Will that stop you? Absolutely not.

"I'm glad you're not one of 'em people that takes the entire damn house with them when they leave." Arthur huffs, then adjusts the bag on his shoulder as a wordless answer for your demand to carry it yourself. He begins walking down the stairs, then nods for you to follow. 

"Well, limiting myself to a literal bare minimum wasn't a joyride either." You jog down the stairs after him, stopping when he does as well and opens the door for you. You want to laugh through your nose in amusement, and you do, but his insistent look is endearing. Perhaps Arthur is the product of a one night stand between a cowboy and a gentleman.

Or perhaps you're being an idiot at nine in the evening.

The man raises a brow in confusion when he sees the smile on your face, so you shake your head dismissively. Your shoulder accidentally brushes against his barreled chest when you walk past him, and he sucks in a breath.

The two of you walk in silence back to his pickup truck, and he stores your luggage in the back. You're quicker this time, and arrive at the door first. He was telling the truth about it being rusty. It's a pain to open, but you manage — just about.

He awaits in the car, smug little smirk tugging on one corner of his mouth when you plop down next to him.

"Told you it was rusty."

You chuckle to yourself as you put on your seatbelt and the engine purrs to life. "And here I was, thinking you were a true gentleman." 

"Wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. 'M full of disappointments, miss (l/n)."

It's silent once again as he drives away.

You look at your continuously shrinking apartment complex in the rearview mirror, and ultimately lose sight of it when the path Arthur takes leads you around a corner. Had you done the right thing?

He takes notice of your expression, hesitates, but ultimately decides to be bold. As bold as you could expect Arthur Morgan to be when it comes to social interactions, at least. "Wasn't expectin' you to say yes to my half-assed proposition, to be honest."

You raise a brow, and for the first time, you're able to get a rough idea of what exactly is going on inside his head. He's offering you a chance to change your mind, to say no.

"Why shouldn't I? You said it gets lonely, and hey, as great as the internet and Netflix are, I get lonely too." You shrug. "I figured it's symbiotic."

"I'm gonna pretend I know what the hell that means."

The both of you chuckle like two idiots, and you're now sure you've made the right choice. This is much better than anything you could hope to do at home.

As much as you hate to admit it, having company — especially one like Arthur's — is something you have greatly missed. You guess the feeling is mutual, but you're not quite sure. Not yet, at least.

"So, where to now?"

"We gotta be back by Macfarlane's ranch at midnight. There's a real nice campin' spot nearby, and I guess it's...kinda become tradition to stop by there at this point." He explains, then looks at you, seeming to await approval of some sort before adding. "Was plannin' on drivin' around New Austin after that."

If assurance is what he needs, assurance is what he shall receive. You're happy to comply, after all. "Sounds perfect."

You smile and sink into the leathered seat again, but this time, not out of embarrassment, but in an attempt to accommodate yourself further. He turns on the air conditioner, and makes it cold before angling it upwards so that it hits neither of you directly. It's a welcome addition to the warm evening air.

Arthur taps his fingertips against the steering wheel as if he wants to say something. And he does. "Do you wanna..."

You decide it can't hurt to familiarize yourself a bit with his taste in music while he talks, and reach for the cassettes stored between the car seats. So does he. Your hands brush against each-other, and while you minutely flinch, Arthur almost jumps back in surprise.

"Sorry." The both of you blurt at the same time. You're the one to break the awkwardness with a chuckle, and Arthur follows, relief washing over his expression. Why does he make you feel so giddy?

"What were you saying?" You ask, remembering he'd started a sentence just before you'd accidentally interrupted him.

"Ah, was, um...was 'bout to suggest you look through my music 'n see if you like anythin'." He looks at you for a second, then back at the road, which is illuminated by the headlights of his truck. "...but I reckon you're curious 'nough to be one step ahead of me."

"Well, curiosity did kill the cat." You laugh through your nose as you trace your fingers over the cassettes, picking them up one by one to look through them, then placing the ones you particularly like in your lap. They're not arranged in any specific order, at least none that you can pick up on. He has a little bit of everything that can be considered tranquil. Jazz, country, blues, even some classical pieces, though those are a bit more well hidden. No rock (unless they're rock ballads, which he has a handful of) or heavy metal in sight, which you would've considered a surprise prior to knowing him. 

"But satisfaction brought it back." Arthur argues, and you can't bear to hold back your grin anymore.

You fish out a cassette that has 'Best of the best' written on it in sharpie, and place it in the car radio. "It did indeed."


	5. Chapter 5

You yawn for the nth time that evening, which is however not a form of embarrassment for you. At least not until Arthur looks at you with a cocked brow, then huffs in both amusement and mockery. "Tired already?"

You want to frown and assume a defensive stance, but decide otherwise when you see his expression — cheeky but nonetheless gentle. Whatever he just said was nothing but friendly banter, and you can't bear the thought of reacting like a stuck up jackass to it.

"Your music isn't doing me any favors." You retort, shifting in your seat as you skip over the momentarily playing song to the next, and realize it's just as soft and demure as the last one. "And these leather seats aren't either."

"You reckon a blanket would improve the situation?"

You're quite sure nothing has ever sounded quite as tempting as a soft blanket in your sleep-drunkened state. It's obvious Arthur is amused by how eagerly you say yes, and he follows it with a shrug and a grin.

"Good, you'll jus' have to wait another hour until we get to that spot near the ranch, 'n you can have it."

He has showed you nothing but kindness until that very moment, and now he decides to tease you? When you're at your lowest, weakest, and most tired? He's a bastard. A handsome, sarcastic and funny bastard, but still a bastard for sure.

"I hate you." You joke.

He leans back in his seat, one hand leisurely set on the steering wheel, then glances at you with a smirk. "Welcome to the club."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You jolt awake when the low thrumming of the truck's engine dies out. Your neck is unbelievably sore. It's dark outside, and you're momentarily confused about where exactly you are until you set eyes on Arthur, who is undoing his seatbelt.

Right. You'd gotten yourself into a road trip with the one and only Arthur Morgan. None of it had been a dream, though it had done a pretty decent job at seeming one for the second you'd spent in-between your unawareness and lucidity.

You discover something set on your lap and over your abdomen. A thin jacket of sorts has been draped across your lower torso, and it most certainly doesn't belong to you. 

"The closest thing I could find to a blanket, 'm sorry." Arthur speaks up when he notices your confused expression. "Realized I had it lyin' around so I figured— Well, you were already asleep, and..."

You stroke your fingertips over the thin but soft material, then look at Arthur. He's rambling on about something, though you can't quite figure out what exactly, but you guess it has to do with the jacket. A soft smile coming from you is enough to make him fall silent.

"Thank you, Arthur."

His shoulders slacken, he huffs, perhaps in realization that he'd been talking too much. "Sure."

You undo your seatbelt as well, then squint at the dark surroundings outside the window. You can't exactly make out anything.

"So." You take the jacket off your lap and start folding it. "Where are we?"

"Just got to the campin' spot I was tellin' you about." He explains, then takes the jacket from you once you've folded it and stuffs it into the space between his seat and the wall behind it. Talk about being neat and orderly. "Unless you're plannin' on sleeping while sittin' up, you can help me set up the tent. 'S just for one person, but I reckon we can make it work." 

You somehow doubt it, but you nod. Worst case scenario, you return to the pickup truck and sleep in there for the rest of the night. Or he does. Though the thought mildly upsets you, especially since all the camping supplies are technically his. If anyone should benefit of a good night's rest, it's still him.

"Come on then."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You can't say you feel particularly useful or important when you're awkwardly standing beside a cussing Arthur, but it's not like you can actively help him set up the tent. You have no idea how exactly it's supposed to work. So you don't protest, in spite of your aching back and tired state and hold the flashlight wherever he tells you to. Your eyes feel like they could shut closed any minute now, but you mentally coax yourself into being awake every few seconds.

"This should do." Arthur states as he rises and dusts off his hands.

Indeed it should. It's not impressive by size, so you suspect it might get a bit cramped, but it does certainly look sturdy. You settle your hands on your hips and look in contentment at the structure that's most likely going to serve as your bedroom for the upcoming week. It doesn't seem so bad, and you suspect part of that stems from the fact that you've taken part of the building process yourself. Only flimsily so, but still, you've somewhat contributed here and there nonetheless.

"Looks good to me." You approve.

"Was worried you were 'boutta get picky." You can hear the smile out of Arthur's voice. He gets up and gestures for you to follow him to his pickup truck. "Hold the light for me while I look for the sleepin' bags?"

It's more of an ask for help than a suggestion, but you don't mind. Why should you?

"Sure." 

It takes Arthur only a good thirty seconds to find the first one in the back of his pickup truck, however much longer for the second one. As he's searching, digging through the numerous utensils in his car, you decide to ask him why exactly he has two sleeping bags. Part of you suspects he's been waiting for a companion on his journey, the other suspects it's a coincidence.

"I just bought that one yesterday." He points at the bedroll you're holding, then glances at the watch on his arm, squinting. You point the light at it to help him out. It's well past midnight, almost 3 AM. "Well, two days ago now." He clarifies. "So I put the older one away, since I figured I wouldn't need it. Goes to show that I never do much thinkin'—" Arthur silently groans in annoyance when his continued search remains fruitless.

Coincidence it is, then.

You have to stifle a yawn when he moves away what seems to be a box of fishing supplies and still finds nothing.

Arthur picks up on it and reaches out towards you, wiggling his fingers in a grabby motion. "Gimme the flashlight, I'll keep lookin'. You take that one n' go to sleep."

You shake your head, both to clarify that you're planning on staying with him, and to wake yourself up. "No, no. I'm fine. Keep going." You assure him.

It's clear he doesn't believe a word, but he takes you up on your offer nonetheless.

A few more minutes go by before he finally, finally finds the damn thing. It looks old and worn, and for a second you suspect he might give it to you, but he shows no signs of it. Instead he unrolls it as he pads over to the tent, then looks at you over his shoulder.

He's waiting for you to settle in first.

You smile thankfully and crawl inside the tent, kicking off your shoes in the process. Spreading out the bedroll proves to be a bit of a challenge, but you manage.

You're surprised when you look towards the entrance and don't see Arthur. He's nowhere to be seen, and neither is the flashlight.

Where the hell is he? Has he abandoned you? Has some kind of wild animal dragged him off while you weren't looking? Surely, you would've heard that, though, right? A sharp intake of breath later, you get ready to shout out his name.

It's safe to say you almost shit your pants when something comes flying into your tent and lands in your lap before you can get out a sound.

Cylindrical, made of metal...a can? 

You pick it up. A can it is, indeed, and it contains peaches, according to the packaging. What the hell? Did that thing fall from the sky, or something?

Your brows furrow as you struggle to make sense of what exactly is going on, until Arthur crawls inside the tent too, and sets his bedroll beside yours. He's holding a can as well, you notice when he sits down across from you cross-leggedly

"Figured you might be hungry. Still had two o' these left in the glovebox." He explains, then tilts his head in confusion at your still shitlessly terrified expression which slowly fades into realization. "Don't tell me I scared ya."

"I mean, it's not exactly soothing to realize your only companion in the middle of nowhere has disappeared, and then find a can falling into your tent!" You retort, and he genuinely laughs for the first time since you've met him.

You want to ask him what exactly is so amusing about that, but he's quicker.

"So what was the first conclusion you drew? That I'd dissolved into thin air and it started rainin' canned peaches?"

It's embarrassing to admit that that is actually quite close to the truth.

"You know what? Don't answer that." Arthur spares you of the awkwardness of admitting it. Instead he takes the can from you, gives it a hearty shake, then opens it before holding it out to you you. You take it from him and try to ignore that stupid chuckle of his to the best of your abilities.

Though that's not exactly an easy task when it sounds so lovely in that low, gravelly voice of his.

"'M real sorry." He speaks up after a few seconds. You can't tell if it's because he wants to mock you further or because he feels guilty. 

You decide it's the latter when you catch a glimpse at his face. 

"Nah, it was kind of stupid of me." With hindsight, you snort and shake your head. It is kind of comical, as much as you hate to admit it. Reluctantly, you bring your can forwards and bump it against his, emulating two glasses of alcohol clinking together. "Here's to canned peaches falling from the sky."

He smirks.


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up to the chirping of birds is a welcome upgrade from the usual Blackwater traffic outside your window.

It dawns on you that you've slept quite the amount. It's around ten in the morning at best, if not later. The sun is shining, some rays even piercing through the navy blue nylon and hitting your face. The space beside you is empty and deserted — not even Arthur's sleeping bag is left behind. The tent's entrance is open, allowing you a not so generous glimpse over the back of Arthur's truck. You exhale in relief when you see a fraction of his frame to the far left of what the entrance allows you to see. He seems to be sitting on the edge of his car, holding something. If you listen closely, there's the faint scratching of a pencil on paper audible.

Wobbly from sleep, you crawl out of the tent and put on your shoes in an unusually smooth motion, then find Arthur sitting on the back of his pickup truck, brows furrowed in concentration as he scribbles something in a black leathered notebook. The air smells of freshly brewed coffee, and that only lures you further in.

You remember him telling you the classic 'curiosity killed the cat phrase' just a good few hours ago, but you cannot be bothered to take it seriously. Not when you really want to find out what exactly a man you'd considered the gruffest person alive a day ago could possibly want to draw while in the middle of nowhere.

"Good morning." You greet. Arthur flinches in the slightest, moving to close his notebook, but seems to give in when his gaze meets your curious one.

"Mornin'." He returns the gesture, looking at you in surprise when you move to sit down next to him, simultaneously stretching your sore back. You almost knock over the aluminum mug he's set beside himself, but manage to catch it in time and before it spills any of its contents. It's half full and contains steaming coffee.

You look up at him, and he deduces you're asking for permission.

"We only got one cup but lots o' coffee, so..." He gestures at the beverage, and you take the hint. Nodding and giving him a polite smile as a thank you, you sip on the coffee. It's not sugared nor contains any milk, so you do have to hold back from pulling disgruntled face, but you drink a decent amount nonetheless.

Arthur watches in amusement, but says nothing. He has tucked the pencil he was previously drawing with between the pages of the notebook and is preparing to put it away.

"What were you scribbling?" You ask. 

He pauses, and looks almost like a cat that just ate the canary. 

"Just some, um, some of them to do lists or whatever they're called."

Seeing through glass might prove to be more difficult than seeing through that flimsy lie. 

"Looked to me like you were drawing." You insist, which causes Arthur to bashfully look away, moving to sheepishly scratch the back of his neck.

"It's for my job." He then finally admits, unable to withstand your still piercing and very much inquisitive gaze. How could he say no to you?

Arthur sighs in defeat, then opens the notebook at the page the pencil was tucked into, handing it to you. You smile at your victory, shifting a little closer to him on the edge of the pickup truck's trunk, and carefully take the notebook in your hands.

It contains sketches, most of them still rough, but somehow...alive. They're of different buildings and houses you can't remember seeing anywhere, which strikes you as odd. Is he drawing them from memory? Making them up?

Whatever the case may be, the drawing has something authentic and alive to it, something that makes it look warm, like every pencil stroke came from the heart.

"Unfortunately, that one right there is only what could've been." Arthur explains, leaning over your shoulder to point at the sketch you're looking at. You can feel the warmth radiating through his shirt when his chest barely touches your back. "Pretty much everythin' turns into a mess when the client wants to get involved in it too much."

You raise a brow, tilting your head as you look at him in confusion. He shifts away from you, but only a few millimeters. "Wait, client?"

"Yeah, I..." He looks away, expression as sheepish as ever. "I'm an architect. There ain't much I can do about workin' with clients."

If you thought Arthur's personality had been a drastic contrast to his exterior, his job was on a whole other level. Architect?

"I know what you're thinkin'." He speaks up, you look at him in surprise. Could he really? "How did a moron like me get into an architecture college?"

Well, that wasn't exactly what was on your mind. You weren't about to question his intelligence, especially not after the last few hours, when you had started to realize that his tough facade was not something to be taken too seriously. As far as you knew, everything you'd thought about Arthur Morgan before were nothing but foolish assumptions.

"Not exactly." You admit and shrug. He looks at you in surprise and disbelief, and you feel a little something in your heart break just a tiny bit. Was he that used to people considering him a big, stupid moron? "I was wondering how you could possibly have chosen...this career path. Out of everything else out there."

"'S a lot more legal work and fightin' with clients over stupid details than actually drawing the damn things, sure, but..." He gazes down at the small notebook clasped in your hands. "Guess I always liked drawing. Hosea, the man that raised me, suggested the whole architecture part. Math was...a damn nightmare, in spite of how much I tried to get it right, I...I didn't get into college. Guess I never did get it quite right."

A dry chuckle follows.

"Wait, so, then..." It definitely feels like you are prying, but goddamnit, Arthur Morgan, the so far living mystery is opening up to you, and you'd be foolish to not take your chance at finding out more about him. "How did you get into college?"

"Let's jus' say Hosea had a friend, Dutch, who had other friends in lower places, and...I had to do some of their dirty work for 'em, and got help in return." Arthur's gaze drifts from the notebook to the dewy grass. He sets his hands in his lap, and starts playing with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. "Don't know if it was worth it."

"You got what you wanted, so I don't see why not." You shrug. Arthur smiles at you sympathetically, as if he were looking at an unknowing child, then shakes his head.

"I had to beat up people. Innocent people, people that were far more hopeless than I was. Had to force them into paying their debts, I..." Arthur draws in a long breath that turns into a sigh. There is something deep-rooted and utterly sad in his gaze, which leaves you wondering how much pain he must've witnessed and felt throughout his life. But it also helps you realize that whatever he was telling you now is barely scratching the surface of him, of his story. The man shakes his head, rising to his feet. "Enough 'bout me 'n my sob story."

You're about to argue that listening to him did not bother you in any way, but he's quicker, digging through the contents in the back of his truck, retrieving...a bow?

"You ever used one o' these before?" Arthur asks, presenting it to you. The weapon is in no way fancy, actually quite minimalistically built, but it looks sturdy and trusty nonetheless.

You can't say you have, or at least not often enough to be good at it, but you'll take him up on his offer. Gladly so.


	7. Chapter 7

After a pleasant walk of roughly ten minutes through the forest, you reach a small creek, where Arthur suggests you stop. He seems more eager than you are to teach you how to shoot a bow, and quite frankly, his enthusiasm is infectious. Before you know it, he's standing in front of you, rambling about every little detail that firing an arrow requires.

"Feet at shoulder width apart." Arthur instructs, hiding a smile when you awkwardly shift into position. He hands you the bow, then guides you to hold it up so that your arm is in a 90 degree angle. 

His touches on you are soft but firm, and placed with thoughtfulness in just the right spots to avoid you feeling uncomfortable. "Now, hold the string with either two or three fingers. The arrow's gonna go..." He pauses, reaches into the quiver strapped to his back, retrieves one of said arrows and places it so that its end sticks between the two fingers you've set on the string. "...here."

"What am I gonna kill with this?" You joke, to which Arthur shakes his head.

"From the first try, probably nothin', unless it's standin' right in front of you."

Once that is said, realization hits — Arthur is right in front of you. Close enough for you to feel his breath lightly fan your face and close enough for you to feel just how damn warm he is.

"Ah, talk about convenience." You quip, then pretend to want to aim the bow at him, but he's quicker, retreating behind your back.

You giggle, but say nothing.

"This okay?" He inquires, polite as always, hands hovering just above your frame. The more time passes, the more your hypothesis of him being a hybrid between a gentleman and a cowboy turns truer. You nod.

He gently grabs you, palms warm and calloused set upon the soft skin of your upper arms. Arthur angles you a bit to your right. "How 'bout that tree over there instead? It ain't got no legs, so I reckon it won't run from you."

You chuckle, pretending to dislike the so-called compromise he offers you, but agree with a nod, finally. 

"Now, when you tug the arrow back, you're not gonna want to use your arm..." He adjusts your hold on the bow with a tap below your elbow, which lets you know you ought to lift it. His fingertips brush over your right shoulder blade through your shirt. "But your back muscles." 

You nod, pulling the string enough to feel it tense against your fingers.

"That's it." Arthur praises, then seems to stop for a second, hesitating. He reluctantly takes a step closer, his barreled chest flush against your back. "Now close one eye, aim at the tree, inhale." His voice is low, bordering on whispers, every spoken word rumbling in his chest and against the back of your neck. You do as he says, drawing in a breath. "Let go when you exhale."

The arrow makes a sharp, almost hiss-like sound when it pierces the air and lands in the greenery somewhere near the tree.

You relax your arms, letting them hang by your sides as you stare in defeat at where you'd lost sight of the arrow. Not even close.

"Not bad." Arthur speaks up. You want to turn around and tell him that your pathetic attempt is not deserving of any praise, but he's quicker, and adds: "In two or three years time, you'll be able to shoot a movin' target too."

He thinks he can tease you in such a manner and get away unscathed?

Thoughts whirring with potential smart replies, you turn around to face him, surprised at how close he really is. Your mind freezes. You could easily kiss him if you leaned forward just a few more inches — but you shouldn't. In an attempt to overplay your invasive thoughts, you instead slap his chest lightly and shake your head. Coming up with a smart reply is suddenly impossible. "Jackass."

"Come on, (y/n), I was jus' teasin'." Arthur puts up his palms as if to demonstrate his lack of ill intentions. "Care to try again?"

"To provide you with more stuff to make fun about?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Maybe."

You bite your lip to keep in a grin, then gesture for him to give you another arrow. He complies, gives you the whole quiver and hangs it over your shoulder. 

You try again, and graze the tree bark this time. Progress, albeit only a little, is a welcome change. Arthur trots a bit further away, leaning his shoulder against another tree as he watches you wordlessly.

After three more fired arrows, one of them finally hits the target, and actually stays there.

You celebrate your victory with a giggle and look at Arthur, childish joy in your gaze. He's smiling at the sight too, before his expression shifts into one of surprise. He lifts his hand, puts his index to his lips, then nods at something behind you.

You follow the direction with your eyes, frowning as you glance at the creek, the greenery around it, the arrow stuck in the tree, and below it — a rabbit!

You whirl around, looking at Arthur for guidance, but he only shrugs and gestures towards the animal, as if he were telling you to go on.

You crouch, loading another arrow, starting to slowly approach the animal. The leaves below your feet rustle, and the rabbit is dashing off before you can hope to try to shoot it.

Goddamnit.

"I reckon starvation's more likely than you killin' anythin' anytime soon." Arthur pipes up, and you huff in defeat. 

It's not like you have a choice.

"You said we're all out of canned peaches. Any better ideas?" The argument seems to be compelling without the context Arthur quickly provides.

"...how's a diner sound? There's one near Armadillo." You have to admit that it sounds far better than any rabbit you could hope to hunt down. And as if his suggestion wasn't compelling enough, he then adds: "It ain't more than an hour away, either."

"You already had me at diner, Arthur."


	8. Chapter 8

The air around you is getting increasingly hotter, heavier, just like your surroundings morph from grassy hills into a dry, desert landscape. All of a sudden, the air conditioning in Arthur's truck becomes your favorite thing in the world, which he notices with a half-hearted laugh through his nose. 

While on the drive, you become hungrier and hungrier. The only reasonable thing to do is to busy yourself by looking through some of the belongings scattered around both in Arthur's glovebox and in-between the seats, behind the cassettes. Only upon asking for permission, however.

You stumble across multiple things, but most eye-catching of all: an architecture magazine, old, folded and faded under the influence of time. It is kept inside the glovebox like a treasure. A quick glance on its back confirms it's old. Very much so, in fact: at least a decade, if not more.

A building is illustrated on the front, gorgeous in spite of the paper's age. There's something utterly natural about it: its limestone facade looks like its made of waves, a constant, rounded curve shapes it.

You read the title out loud: " 'Antoni Gaudí and his creations'?"

"Ah, that, 's just some...stupid ol' magazine." Arthur glances sideways at you, then looks back at the road. If you knew him better, you can claim he is nervous. But his expressions are not that easy to read, not even after spending over twenty four hours in close proximity to him — he's still a mystery in many aspects. The man drums his fingers against the steering wheel when you raise a brow at him inquisitively, then gives in. "One of my...favorite architects."

You hum, analyzing the illustration more closely. There is no sharp edge to be seen on the structure, the building in incalculably calculated, warm and imperfect. Like leaves or warm caramel or smooth stones on the beach, it gives you the feeling of wanting to touch it, one way or another. "It looks somehow...soft. Smooth."

"'Cause it is. All of Gaudí's works are inspired by nature." Arthur explains. "Reeds, bones, mountains, trees, you name it. He always found a way of incorporatin' 'em into buildings."

"They're pretty." You agree, then start to flip through the magazine. It shows off more of Gaudí's works, some more colorful than others, but all of them sharing one similarity: the naturalness, the ingeniousness. It's like they're alive, wanting to be marveled at and seen, but without showing or demanding extravagance.

When you reach the end of the journal, familiarizing yourself with the very much old date, it suddenly strikes you that the paper may hold some form of sentimental value for Arthur. Why else would he keep it? Surely, it's not the only thing in the world that ever discussed his favorite architect?

"It's well over ten years old." You say aloud, though it ends up sounding a bit more judgmental than intended. Arthur avoids your gaze even more purposefully now.

"Yes. It's...I guess it's what got me into architecture in the first place." He admits, albeit reluctantly. 

You neatly close the magazine, then look at Arthur with a tilt of your head, urging him to continue. If there are more informations to dish out, you would more than gladly hear them.

He complies.

"Hosea gave it to me when I was 17 'n still tryin' to figure out what the hell I was gonna do with my life." There's a warm, nostalgic smile on Arthur's features as he reminiscences. You have to admit it's quite endearing to imagine a seventeen year old version of him marveling at an architecture magazine. "Until then, I, well, I never thought of buildings that way. Just the practical aspect, the hard 'n ugly lines, how perfect and calculated they're supposed to be. When I saw somethin' so unusual but...gorgeous, I realized they could be so much more."

He looks at you as if an apology for rambling is on the tip of his tongue, but it seems to melt away when he catches sight of your warm smile. "That's actually amazing, Arthur." You affirm, and he looks down, almost bashfully, shaking his head.

"Ain't nothin' amazing about idealizing somethin' to the point where you go through the depths of trigonometry just to end up listenin' to whatever the hell an idiot of a client has to say."

An uglier, less gentle part of you wants to tell him that this is just how things, or people themselves, are. But you cannot find the heart to tell him that. Maybe because ever since you've been around him, it felt like you've been in a bubble, protected from everything else, like you've finally arrived home, in spite of physically being nowhere near it. And you fear that if he feels the same, your words would take that from him. You don't want that. So you empathize.

"I know what you mean. People just love pretending to be experts in fields they don't have a clue about." You shrug nonchalantly. So does Arthur. 

"I reckon I shouldn't complain." He admits, unable to hold back a smile at how neatly and carefully you fold the magazine and put it back where you found it. Arthur doesn't know what exactly he likes about that so much, but upon witnessing it, he feels like he could trust you with anything, ranging from his thoughts to his feelings, and that you'd treat it all with the same demureness and respect.

"At least you're not robbing banks or pickpocketing for a living." You certainly do not expect the wolfish grin that settles on his features, as if he knows something you are in complete oblivion to. You can't help but add a reluctant: "Right?"

Arthur laughs through his grin.

"Not anymore, at least." The truck slows, and before you know it, he's pulling over, towards a shabby diner with a scarce parking lot. It looks strangely out of this world in a way you cannot comprehend. The engine dies out, the doors open with a click. "Well, here we are."

All of a sudden, you have thousands of questions you want to ask.

But the most urgent one has to be what kinds of food the diner has on the menu.


	9. Chapter 9

The diner is as empty as a ghost town, but you cannot care less. When the waitress arrives with only one menu, you practically rip it out of her hands.

Arthur is not so impatient, instead he simply demands 'the usual', then starts chatting with the young woman as you read through the menu. You manage to find something that suits your tastes in a fair amount of time, and say it out loud for the waitress to hear and write down.

The place is, aside from its desertion, cozy nonetheless. It has a certain aura you'd only expect encountering in a cottage: old, traditional, but welcoming.

"You're a regular?" It's both a statement and a question, and it's enough to make Arthur tilt his head to one side as he stares down at the cutlery set in front of him.

"Sure. Guess you could say that." He shrugs, takes the fork and knife in his hand, folds the tissue they were set on diagonally, then sets them back down on top of it. "Hosea used to bring me 'n John round these parts when we was still young."

You decide that you've heard the mention of the mysterious father figure of Arthur's quite enough. Not in the bad way, however — you just want him to cease being a mystery.

"Tell me about him." You urge Arthur on. It earns a confused glance from him, he can't quite understand what you're demanding. You can't blame him for it, your request was indeed a tad ambiguous. "Hosea, I mean. He sounds...nice."

"That he was— is." Arthur corrects himself. "Took me in when I was just a kid. Treated me like a son, gave me a family." A somehow sad smile settles on his features. 

Silencw takes over once again. You want to ask him more about his past, and more specifically, his father figure, but you hesitate for a few seconds. Perhaps you're prying?

"How'd you meet him?" You manage to work up the courage. Arthur looks at you in slight surprise, as if he can't quite fathom the fact that you want to find out more about him.

But you do.

"It's a...real silly story." He says after a moment of reluctance. His gaze meets yours, and you realize he's seeking the confirmation he needs before clearing his throat and shifting in the wooden chair. "I...um, I was 'bout...13, 14, maybe? Still very young, that's for sure. I'd ended up in the orphanage a few years before. Some of the older kids would sneak out at night 'n pickpocket their way through the city, and soon enough, I'd decided to join 'em too. And things went well, at least for a little while. I'd picked a few pockets m'self, but I was mostly part of the distraction. 

That was until one day I saw two men walking down a dimly lit street. One of 'em, who would later turn out to be Hosea's friend, looked like he could have a lot of money on 'im. I tried to convince the others to rob them, but they refused, for some reason. I decided to take the matter into my own hands and dupe 'em myself. Well, I did the classic trippin' and then leaning against someone trick, got the money, and started walkin' away. But I couldn't help myself, and just a few steps away from them, I peeked inside the wallet, and I—" Arthur suddenly stops, pinches the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, shakes his head. He looks very much ashamed to admit what followed. "I…dropped the damn thing when I saw how much there was inside. They obviously caught me."

You smile, both as a reaction to his story and in slight wonder that he’s actually telling you this. You’d half expected him to turn you down and refuse revealing anything about his past, however it seems that Arthur Morgan is a man that finds pleasure in storytelling. Or at least when the audience is you. That makes you feel…special, in a very indirect but truthful way.

“And then?” You suppose encouragement is still welcome, especially seeing that he regards himself as a nuisance when he’s talking. Arthur seems to appreciate your words.

“I ran. Or tried to. They was faster, stronger, and caught me before I could even blink. After making sure I’d given my pants a proper shittin’, they asked me my name. N’ then they let me go. Just like that. Next thing I knew, a few days later, a woman popped up at the orphanage and asked for a boy that fit my description and had my name. That was Bessie, Hosea’s wife. Before I knew it, the adoption papers had been signed, too.”

As if she has a sixth sense for perfect timing, the waitress appears out of the kitchen balancing a plate in each hand. One of them contains the dish you’d ordered, and the other, an almost ungodly amount of pancakes.

Both you and Arthur address her your kindest thank-you’s before starting to dig into your meals. You’re hungrier than you’d even thought you were. Part of your obliviousness regarding your own discomfort could be stemming from how comforting and distracting Arthur’s presence is to you, but that’s barely an assumption of yours, at least momentarily.

You look down at the meal in front of you, playing with the cutlery as suddenly two dots connect.

“Wait, so the man that helped you get into university, the one you mentioned in the car…” You stop to shove a portion of food into your mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly as Arthur looks up at you with a tilt of his head. 

“Yeah?”

“Was that the same one you tried to steal from?”

He looks at you in pleasant surprise before nodding his head. He’s suddenly lost interest in his portion of pancakes. “Ain’t you a clever one.”

“So that’s a yes.” You smile in victory, and want to push your luck further. You dig through your mind, trying to remember what exactly the man’s name was. Something with D, you’re sure about that. “What’s his name, again? Douglas, or something?”

Arthur snorts, which can only be the product of a stifled laugh. Wrong answer it is, then. “Dutch.” He corrects, the slightest trace of amusement still in his voice. “His name’s Dutch.“

You take it as some kind of half-victory. You don’t know what exactly you’re trying to prove, but you know it feels wonderful to see Arthur genuinely smile and also be the cause of it. “See, I’m practically a detective.”

“Wouldn’t go as far as sayin’ that, seein’ how you reacted with the canned peaches the night before.”

If he were sitting beside you, you’d punch his shoulder. Only lightly, of course, but luckily, he’s protected by the fact that he’s sitting at the table across from you, and that said table holds two plates of good food.

When you look at his expression, you realize you couldn’t punch him even if he was right beside you. Not with that look on his pretty face.


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. You stick around the diner until noon and, upon discussing it with Arthur, order another extra large plate of pancakes for the both of you to share as a substitute for lunch.

He returns the curiosity you'd shown him previously by asking you questions about your past, about how you'd ended up in Blackwater, about your dreams and hopes for the future.

To say it is endearing to witness him watch you as if you are something he can't quite figure out, but that bewitches him in the most complicated of ways is an understatement.

You can't even claim you notice the weather outside change until the afternoon sun catches in Arthur's lashes and throws shadows over his eyes. You're far too focused on him, the way his lips move when he talks or smiles shyly while he tells you another of his little anecdotes.

The both of you blink in surprise when his phone rings all of a sudden.

His expression of confusion shifts into one of both disdain and shock in a matter of seconds. Arthur looks as if he's seen a ghost, right on the screen of his phone.

"Didn't even know there was signal around here." You lean back in the chair, attempting to ease his mood with a soft smile.

The phone is still vibrating in his hand, and Arthur looks as uncertain and uncomfortable as you've ever had the honor of witnessing him.

It stops ringing.

"Yeah, uh...me neither."

You've never wanted a step by step guide on how to console an agitated Arthur Morgan quite as much as you do now. Unfortunately such a thing does not exist. But you come to terms with that, decide to improvise instead, and glance at him with the gentlest expression you can possibly muster.

"You alright?" 

He ignores you, although not on purpose, as he hurries to stuff his phone inside his pocket, then looks at you for a few seconds. Arthur must be processing the question, you realize.

He nods. You've never seen something quite as unconvincing.

"Sure."

"You wanna, um...talk about it?" You nod at where he's stored his phone. 

Arthur shakes his head, rises to his feet slowly. So much for at least half a day spent in a diner in the middle of nowhere, you suppose. You don't complain though — a change of scenery is starting to sound more and more alluring.

"You wanna get outta here?"

He nods, much more convincingly now.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Arthur hurries to his pickup truck first, arriving there far quicker than you do. He makes his strides far wider, an attempt to conceal his haste to get there. You notice, but you don't say anything abut it; if anything, you make your steps smaller, slower. If he needs some time off to cool down, you'll provide.

When you reach the pickup truck, you walk over to your side, and lean your back against the door as you wait.

You hear Arthur sigh in frustration and glance at him curiously over your shoulder when you feel like the timing might fit. His forehead is leaned against the steering wheel, his phone set in his lap, buzzing with notifications he does not dare open.

Deciding to give him some more time, you walk around the car, busying yourself by looking over what else he has brought with him. You get an idea when you catch sight of a crate that can only contain what the engraving on it suggests with a stylized drawing of a fish. Fishing supplies.

After waiting around for two more minutes, you finally return to the shotgun seat, and dare to glance inside through the window before opening the door.

Arthur is leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His phone is stored between the seats, amongst the cassettes.

"Did something happen?" You ask cautiously. "Something from your job, or...?"

"No, I just—" He pauses, voice catching in his throat, every little thing about him tense. "Nothin'. Nevermind." Arthur shifts in his seat, squeezing the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white, then sighs. 

"You don't have to tell me." You assure him with a smile. Judging by the way the tension in his body fades bit by bit, he appreciates that. "I was thinking we could...maybe go fishing? So that you can have some time to calm down, clear your thoughts, and I can...well, I can learn to make myself useful and catch us dinner. Or we can just drive. Or stay. Or go back. Whatever you want, I don't mind."

Arthur's expression shows nothing but well-concealed, but pleasant surprise. "Y'know what? Fishing sounds good."

Maybe you don't need a step by step guide after all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You don't know New Austin like the back of your hand, but you're pretty sure that you're passing lake Don Julio in that moment, and that Arthur is lost in his thoughts. Disturbing him is quite dreadful to do, not because of the way he reacts, but because you feel as if you're breaking into his thoughts uninvited. Something you, yourself find very annoying. But it's a necessity.

"Arthur?" You ask, tapping his shoulder simultaneously to get his attention. He draws in a breath, thrust back into reality in the gentlest of ways you can come up with. "Isn't that, um..." You point at the body of water outside your window. "A lake? We could fish, if you're still feeling up for it."

"Ah, shit. Yeah, sorry, I was...I was thinking and I—" He scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly. You can practically feel the way he's mentally telling himself to shut the hell up before he shakes his head, and his expression shifts from sharp to demure. "Thank you."

With that, he makes a left towards the lake.

He stops the truck somewhere nearby, parks it in whatever shade he can find, which is scarce at best. The sun is relentless even in the afternoon hours when it comes to New Austin.

The both of you step outside, he searches for the crate, then trots after you as you approach the lake.

"Pretty nice out here." You say, both in an attempt to fill the silence and to help ease whatever is troubling him right now. "Think we could camp here, too?"

"The ground might be a bit...unwelcoming, but..." Arthur kicks his shoe against the earth to further prove his point. Dust whirls up. "...sure. I've slept on worse."

"I'm not even gonna ask how and where."

"A wise choice, miss."

Arthur huffs and you giggle, leisurely walking to the shore, where he sets down the crate and retrieves a fishing rod. It only takes him a few seconds to get it in working order before handing it to you.

"Ever fished before?"

"I've...some experience with it."

"Think you can get us dinner without drowning?"

"What do you take me for? I'm not going to get the hook caught on the back of my shirt and throw myself out into the lake, I assure you."

"Let's hope so. Bait's in the box, use what you like. I've...no idea what works best where, so just experiment, I guess."

With that, he trots off, leaving you to turn around and ask, a bit more nervously than intended, where he thinks he's going.

Arthur smiles, but doesn't mock you, although it looks like a comment is on the tip of his tongue. "Gettin' the campfire ready. Unless you plan on eatin' that fish raw, in which case...enjoy the salmonella."

"You know salmonella's not called that way because it's contained in salmon, right?"

He looks at you over his shoulder, grins. He's getting back to his old self, good.

"Golly, you coulda' fooled me."


	11. Chapter 11

It's not long until you hear the rustling of a campfire erupt nearby. If Arthur Morgan is the master of one thing, it has got to be making even the most hostile of places feel cozy. He trots up to the shore of the lake, slowing when he approaches you. You notice the way he reluctantly lifts his hand to set it on your upper back when he reaches your side, but ultimately pulls back.

"Catch anythin' yet?"

You readjust your grip on the fishing rod, feeling almost guilty for the answer you're giving. "No. Sorry."

"'S fine, I ain't much of a fisher neither." He pauses, hesitates, looks at you, then at your surroundings. The sky is just as prettily colored as the day you two have met, and reminds you of the way coals look just before they burn out: barely flickering. There's not much sunlight left to speak of, but you don't mind. The water is tranquil and reflects the slowly appearing stars like a shattered mirror. "I can take over the fishing for a bit, if your arms are gettin' tired or somethin'."

You cock a brow and hide a smile. "No, you set the camp up. It's only fair I do my share."

"Alright." He holds back an amused snort, which foretells nothing good. "I mean, I've skipped dinner before, won't be too much trouble to do it now as well."

Goddamn this man.

You lightly slap his shoulder and giggle. Arthur is quick to break the serious facade and join in on the cackling before silence overtakes the two of you once more.

"Good to know you're feeling better after that whole phone call business." You reel in the bait a bit, hoping to attract more fish by doing so. No luck so far. "Seemed to me like you were pretty shaken up, and I— I mean, I don't wanna pry, but did something happen?"

Arthur crosses his arms and looks out at the lake. There's guilt settling in your chest when you realize that opening up does not exactly come naturally to him, and that you've asked him to do it regardless. An apology awaits at the tip of your tongue, but dies out like the last ray of sunlight when Arthur speaks.

"It was an...ex. She always insisted she was too good for the likes of me, which I reckon is true, but now she wants my help."

You huff. You didn't like the sound of the situation from the moment Arthur mentioned it had to do with past lovers, and as much as you want to avoid assuming things without context, you dislike the woman already, whomever she may be. 

"If there's one thing I know about relationships, is that exes always mean trouble." You reel in the bait a bit further. Where did all the fish go to? You tug on the fishing rod in frustration, but get back to what you were saying, trying to word it as carefully as possible. "Doesn't sound...well, I'm in no position to judge, but sounds to me like she's no good for you."

"Or too good." Arthur argues, kicking a pebble into the lake. He rolls back his shoulders and sighs. 

"Seeing how you reacted when you got that phone call, she can't possibly be that great." You quip, but for the first time, receive no snort or huff as an answer.

"Well, she ain't contacted me in over five years, is all." Arthur shrugs. "Apparently her brother's joined some...kinda religious cult and she wants me to talk him out of it. Me, of all people."

Now it makes sense, it's that kind of ex. The manipulative, sweet-talking little charlatan that will use what is left of your affection for them to make you their work horse. You know that type far too well.

"Sounds to me like she wants to use you." You say, a bit more harshly than intended. Arthur looks at you in surprise, as if he hadn't quite expected that choice of words either, but it doesn't look like he minds. Not enough to visibly show it, at least. "You don't have to keep coming back to someone that doesn't treat you the way you deserve to be treated. There's plenty other people out there."

"Maybe. I don't know." Arthur cluelessly shakes his head. "Feels like there ain't that many fish in the sea."

"Yeah, you're telling me." You tug on the fishing rod again, groan and reel in the bait once more, realizing that it's getting closer to the shore. Your chances of catching anything at all are getting slimmer and slimmer. "Looks like we're going to starve tonight."

"Wh-" Arthur furrows his brows, processes what you'd just said. "Oh, you meant this sea."

"Well, yeah, what else— "

Oh. He was talking about the figurative sea, and figurative fish. Perfect, he'd just indirectly confessed his loneliness to you, and you thought he'd been talking about food. This surpasses a lot of situations in which you've felt idiotic, though it doesn't exactly crown them either. You're not sure if that brings you relief or makes you feel even worse.

"Shit, sorry. I thought you meant—" You gesture at the lake. 

Arthur shakes his head, a pretty grin on his face. As idiotic as you feel, you're glad you've managed to bring a smile on his expression again, in spite of the circumstances. 

"'S fine. Maybe we ain't tryin' in the right spot." He takes the rod out of your hands, reels the bait out of the water, then props it on his shoulder. Arthur nods at the opposite side of the lake. "How 'bout over there?"

"Don't think we have anything to lose if we give it a try."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Arthur's right. You do manage to catch a total of two fish on another side of the lake, which provides a pleasant surprise for the both of you. You leisurely walk beside Arthur on the shore, the both of you holding one fish each. You have to admit it looks kind of comical, and when you catch him staring at you with a dorky smile, you can't help but giggle.

"Looks like we were wrong about the whole 'no fish' business." He comments, you nod in agreement. "Unlike the other sea."

This time, you're determined to keep him from drifting into the state of self-deprecation. There have only been a few hints of it thus far, such as him claiming his ex was far too good for him, or other small claims you'd missed at first. They are all coming together, and helping you realize that perhaps Arthur seemed so closed off and unapproachable at first because he thinks very lowly of himself.

"Maybe you just never tried the right spots, like now. Or didn't get yourself out there enough."

He tilts his head and quirks a brow. "Define whatever that's supposed to mean."

"Social media, dating apps, gatherings, parties, all that jazz."

He shakes his head and scoffs. "You just summed up at least half of the things I hate in one sentence."

Well, that explains...a few things. Introversion is to be expected of Arthur Morgan, and you cannot claim you dislike it in any way — it's part of him, of his lovable personality. One thing, however, has left you genuinely curious.

"Okay, you hate parties, fair enough. Not everyone's cup of tea. You hate dating sites, also understandable, they're filled with creeps. But why...social media?"

"Feels too open and public. B'sides, figurin' out how everythin' works is a shitload of effort I ain't willin' to put into somethin' like that."

You hum as you process what he'd just said. It does make sense, to some extent, you suppose. You'll accept his point regardless — it's not like you want to force him into anything.

Silence falls over the both of you as you reach the campfire. It's properly dark out by now, so you appreciate the fire much more than you let on.

"You know one thing I love about it, though?" Arthur speaks up out of nowhere. You answer with a curious 'no', to which a mischievous smile tugs on his lips. "You got your phone?"

You follow him towards the back of the pickup truck. "Um, yeah?"

He hands you the fish. "Here, can you hold this for just a bit?"

You nod your head and wait for him to dig through the things stored in the back of the car.

"Got Facebook on it?" He asks, face still turned away from you. You're slowly starting to become more and more suspicious of his intentions, but you still give him an answer.

"Yes...?"

"Perfect." Arthur turns around, holding two aluminum plates, towards which he nods. There's also something made of metal tucked under his arm, but you can't figure out what. You get the message and place one fish on each plate. He walks towards the campfire, where he sets up the metallic pieces he'd been holding under his arm, and you realize it's a makeshift grill of sorts. The two fish are promptly placed on it, which leaves your mouth watering at the thought of food. He nods for you to come over, and you do, sitting down in the dirt beside him.

Reluctantly, you give him your phone with the app he'd demanded open. 

His mischievous grin is only widening as he's typing in something. It suddenly dies as he looks up at you, and speaks up almost solemnly. "You gotta promise not to tell John I showed you, a'right?"

You can't help but smile at the comicalness of the situation, but also in curiosity about what exactly you're going to see.

"You have my word, Arthur."

He shifts a bit closer to you, hands you your phone. You can't believe your eyes once you catch a glimpse of the screen. It's a facebook page, and a very old one at that. The last post is from 12 years ago. The profile picture is of a teenager with greasy, chin long hair and a fringe, holding a cigarette between two fingers and a monster energy drink in the other. The username is strangely...fitting.

Johnny Marston

"What the..."

"John's page from when he was a teenager." Arthur explains as you scroll down through the posts, which are anything but short of edgy symbols and 'XD's. 

You stumble across a picture which is taken in the mirror, and in which one sleeve of a skimpy teenage John's shirt is pulled up to reveal a tattoo you can't remember seeing on him. Perhaps it had been drawn in pen?

You press your palm over your mouth. You're not quite sure if Arthur has just introduced you to a gold mine or a curse, but you're certain it's amusing.

Arthur shifts to look at the phone over your shoulder and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I drew that." He states, though it sounds anything but proud, while pointing at the screen.

"The tattoo?"

"Yeah." He confirms. "John really wanted one, but Hosea wouldn't let him, so he made due with what he had, which was a pen. Though we, uh...well, we also tried injecting printer ink under his skin with a syringe after I got tired of having to redo it over and over. Which...went anythin' but well."

"You're shitting me." You stare at Arthur in disbelief. "You injected printer ink under John's skin."

"I mean, it was annoying to have to redo the stupid thing every week! And the damned idiot had already told all his scene friends his tattoo was permanent, so he had a reputation to maintain."

Both you and Arthur laugh at that. Part of you doesn't even want to believe it's true, but then again, the evidence is right in front of you.

"There's a little blue dot on his left arm if you look real close. That's where we tried injectin' the ink." Arthur adds, and you're ultimately convinced.

Silently, you continue to scroll through the posts, and he occasionally shares some anecdotes to go with them. You can't remember the last time you'd felt so utterly at ease, but also ended up clutching your stomach from laughter.

Arthur Morgan truly is something else.


	12. Chapter 12

Waking up to the sound of rain is one of the finer things in life. You're certain Arthur would agree, if he were still beside you in the tent — no such luck. 

The pitter patter of raindrops sounds even more peaceful when it drums on the nylon, barely centimeters away from you, and yet far away. You cuddle further into your sleeping bag, sighing in satisfaction. You could spend hours like this — and you will.

The tent's entrance zips open, and someone peeks inside. You have to refrain from kicking the intruder before you realize it's Arthur.

His hair is damp and slicked back. Raindrops are pearling down his face and neck, seeping into the plain, soaked shirt he's wearing, assuring you of what you'd thought since the moment you've met him: This man is quite a sight to behold. And he's been in the rain for a while.

"Sorry to disturb your sleep, but I'm afraid you gotta move."

"Huh? Why?" You sit up, rubbing your eyes to avoid staring at him for an unhealthy amount of time, which works to some extent.

"Apparently there's a storm comin'. We should leave, or at least pack up 'n wait it out."

As much as you like nature, it certainly has a way of ruining things.

Or improving them, you tell yourself with a fugitive glance towards Arthur as you get out of the sleeping bag.

"I'll put on a clean shirt and be with you in a minute."

He nods, retreats out of the tent. "Take your time." Arthur speaks up once he's outside. "'S not like I can get much more soaked than I already am."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Stepping into the rain is like standing under a literal shower. The only positive aspect about the downpour you can find (aside from the aforementioned purely visual one) is that it's temperature is comfortable to some extent, if not slightly warm. New Austin and its perks.

If setting up the tent had been a pain, picking it up while being under a figurative shower is a challenge. Arthur proves to be as helpful as always, though either his or your hands do slip over the nylon from time to time and force you to restart folding the material.

You almost can't believe it when the two of you store it into the back of Arthur's truck. With a huff, you lean against the side of the car, glancing at Arthur with a smile. 

His soaked shirt hugs his wide frame, and does a stellar job at showing off the muscles of his back and arms when he stretches across the bed of his pickup truck to unroll the cover. You can swear he stares at you, too, but when you do finally get the courage to find out wether that is the case or not, Arthur reacts before you can get your answer.

Your clothes are stuck to you as well, and you have to admit it's not exactly comfortable, but not the worst you've had either. At least the rain isn't cold.

He makes sure no water is seeping through the cover he's pulled over the bed of his pickup truck, then takes a step backwards.

"Now what?" You ask, and Arthur shrugs.

"We can...wait it out."

You furrow your brows,. The thought of staying in a dry place with wet clothes sounds somehow worse than standing in the rain. "That's no fun."

Arthur looks at you with a quirk of his brow and a smirk tugging on one corner of his lips. A few strands of his hair fall out of place and stick to his damp visage. "Didn't know rain had to be fun."

You settle your hands on your clothed hips, over the soaked fabric of your shirt, and look around. What to do, aside from sit inside Arthur's car and wait out the storm?

The lake.

An idea pops into your mind, and you don't even have time to process it properly before you blurt it out. Talk about elegance and eloquence.

"How about we go for a swim?"

Arthur looks at you skeptically. "In the lake?"

"Yeah?"

"During a storm?"

"I don't see any lightnings."

He leans his back against the car, reaches inside his pocket, retrieves a pack of cigarettes. He thumbs it open, peeks inside with a sigh, the closes it. No point in lighting a cigarette in the rain. He straightens himself up, then looks at you.

"I hope you're aware swimmin' in a lake ain't like takin' a dip in the city pool."

"Of course. But it's still water, at the end of the day."

"Mm, no..." Arthur hooks his thumbs around his belt, then glances at you with an unusually serious expression. "There's eels, 'n those ugly fish with sharp teeth that bite, 'n worms, 'n seaweed..." As the sentence progresses, his voice gets lower and lower, but his expression gradually loses its sternness, revealing a smirk. "And how could I forget, maybe even decayin' corpses of murder victims."

He's trying to frighten you, the jackass. But you won't have it.

"If there were any dead bodies, I'd see them. Corpses float on water, Arthur."

"Most of 'em." His smile widens, yours fades. He crosses his arms, waits for a few seconds in which you hesitate, then looks at you with a cheeky tilt of his head. "Did I scare you?"

You huff, shake your head. Only scarcely so, is the truth, but lying is a favorable option to shield your pride.

"Not at all." You reach for the hem of your shirt, starting to lift it, and kick off your shoes simultaneously. "In fact, I'll race you to the water."

Arthur watches in surprise, the smallest of blushes dusting his cheeks before he shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. Suddenly, the widest, most demure grin you have ever seen grace his face tugs on his lips. Your heart is speeding up, as if it is trying to rival the rhythm of the raindrops falling on your warm, tingling skin.

"A'right, count me in." Arthur says and reaches for the hem of his shirt. His eyes don't leave yours for a second. "Do your worst."


	13. Chapter 13

"Thought 'doing one's worst' was your job." You shoot back cheekily, and don't have to look at him to know that his previously gentle smile is growing mischievous. You let your pants drop on the shore, just beside your discarded shirt and shoes, but decide to keep on your underwear.

You can practically feel Arthur's presence looming behind you as he rushes to do the same. The temptation to turn around and peek at him is barely containable, but you remind yourself that you have a mini-contest to win and your pride to defend.

So you sprint towards the lake, wading through the water until it reaches your waist, ignoring the shivers its temperature sends crawling up your spine, and dive. The rain was definitely warmer than the lake, but it's by far less divine.

You couldn't have claimed you'd missed hearing that dull, signature splashing of water only after you're below the surface. You look up, seeing a distorted version of yourself reflected in the surface, and take a moment to admire every small circle a falling raindrop causes on the waterline. Time seems to be slowing down and you're the only one that knows it. You don't want to emerge, but unfortunately, air exists and you need it.

When you reach the surface and brush your slick hair out of your face, Arthur is nowhere to be found. You realize you've swam quite the distance already, and that you can just barely still feel the sand under your feet.

It's quite the ego boost to catch sight of Arthur still at the shore, only waist deep in the water.

"What's wrong?" You tease. "Scared of the corpses you mentioned?"

You know that's not the reason. (Hopefully not.) But you remember the warmth he irradiates, especially while you were sleeping and there was less than a few centimeters between the two of you. Arthur is a walking heater, so the fact that it takes him a while to get used to lower temperatures doesn't come as too much of a surprise.

"Not my fault the water's so cold!" A string of gibberish that can be interpreted as curse words follows his sentence when he takes another step into the lake.

Smiling only to yourself (as to not discourage him from progressing into the water), you swim back, stopping about half a meter away from Arthur. He has made little to no advance, as the water now reaches just above his hips.

His face, neck and arms are sun-kissed, unlike his chest and abdomen, which are pasty, further bringing out the light blond hair that dusts them. Well-defined muscles flex under his skin with every move. To say he looks lovely like this — all damp and highlighted by the cold, full morning sun is an understatement. You decide not to show the effect he's having on you.

"And here I was, thinking I actually had some competition."

Arthur looks at you, something smart to say at the ready, but his clever response seems to get caught somewhere between his brain and his tongue. He looks downwards after a second or two of silence, then mumbles a borderline bashful "Shut up." as a substitute for his lack of words.

A mischievous thought flashes through your mind when you realize what power your current surroundings offer.

The face you pull doesn't go by unnoticed.

"I swear, if you're thinkin' what I'm thinkin' you are, then don't. Even. Try. Splashing. Me." He warns, but you see through the act he puts up. He is kindly asking you not to do what you're certainly about to do.

"I'm trembling in fear, Arthur." You splay your hand on your collarbone. "I truly am."

He hums sarcastically enough to match your tone — it's obvious his pride (or what he still has of it) doesn't take kindly to your jabs. You wade a bit closer, fully able to reach the riverbank yourself now, and he shoots you a glare.

"Please," You insist, then point at yourself. "I would never."

"Yeah, that's what they all say." Arthur advances once again, but more boldly this time. The water reaches just below his diaphragm, and he pulls a slight face of discomfort from the temperature, but says nothing.

You dip one hand into the water behind you. 

"Don't you dare." Arthur warns.

You smile, though you're quite certain it looks foxy rather than innocent.

"Don't I dare to do what exactly?"

"Be mature about this. Don't splash me."

You pretend to frown, tap the index of your free hand to your chin. "What was that? 'Please splash me'?"

"I swear to g-"

He doesn't have time to say anything else. You send a self-made wave his way, and though it's not the biggest one you remember conjuring (especially as a kid or teen), but it does its job.

Arthur gasps for breath, his previously slicked back hair sticks to his forehead and perturbs his vision. You can't remember having any vivid memories of a soaked golden retriever, but you're sure Arthur comes quite close to resembling one.

"Goddamn you! You ain't gettin' away with this." 

For just a second, you're terrified that you've actually, truly angered him, but find comfort soon enough. Arthur erupts into a goofy chuckle and brushes his hair out of his face.

You swim away from into pseudo-safety, giggling yourself.

You hear splashing behind you, so you focus further on trying to get away as quickly as possible. You go for the shore, since you figure wading is just a tad quicker than swimming.

That is cut short when something warm grabs a hold of your waist. Before you know it, your torso has been lifted out of the water, and you hear Arthur's familiar chuckle behind you. You thrash in his grip, which is loose enough to avoid hurting you, but firm enough to keep you trapped.

"Quite the slippery type, ain't you?" 

"Only when the other person's too slow." 

You barely have time to draw in a breath before he playfully tosses you deeper into the lake, back to where you were trying to escape from. 

Oh, he'll pay for that. You figure you'll give him a scare and stay underwater. It does take a few seconds of waiting, and comes at the cost of holding your breath for longer than you're used to. When you hear Arthur call your name and approximate him being close enough, you bolt out of the water and towards him. He catches you, and you hook your legs around his torso, though it's more of a sheer reflex than lucid thought. He topples backwards a bit from the impact of your jump, but remains upright. His palms find your lower thighs to give you support, though you're not so sure what part of that is a quick reaction.

"Jesus Christ, you..." Arthur's breath is labored, and you realize that so is yours. He's warm, much warmer than you, and only now do you notice that you've been cold this entire time. Arthur's gaze fleets downwards at your intertwined bodies. He blinks quickly, as if to brung his thoughts back into soberness. A blush spreads not only across his face, but lightly dusts his collarbone and shoulders as well. "...scared the shit right outta me." 

"That was the point." You answer, and your chests bump together from the airy chuckles that leave the both of you.

"Remind me to never go swimming with you again." He quips, but it's obvious be doesn't mean a word. You set your elbows on his shoulders.

"If the next time's gonna be as fun as this one, I'll refrain from doing that."

He smiles, starting to lower you so that you can stand on your own two feet once again. But you don't want the sensation, the closeness, the warmth to end, so you place your palm on top of his hand on your left lower thigh and squeeze it lightly, urging him to not let go. Not just yet.

The look of surprise on his face is quite possibly the most adorable sight you've ever witnessed. In spite of the slight flabbergasted state he seems to be in, Arthur complies to your silent request, holds you as close as before once again. He tilts his head, his gorgeous aquamarine gaze looking down at your lips fugitively before connecting with yours again.

He's about to say something, you can tell, but your right hand moving from his shoulder to his neck silences him efficiently. You brush some of the droplets of water that have formed just above his brows away, along with a few stray strands of hair.

You're sure he can feel your heart hammering wildly because you certainly can feel his. Arthur's thumbs brush against the side of your thighs as he awaits your next move with a stuttering breath.

Part of you wonders when exactly he has been last confronted with affection, though you figure it can't possibly be that long with that gorgeous face of his. Judging by his reluctance, you could very well be wrong, but you can't be bothered with dissecting every gesture of his when he holds you against himself like that.

You cradle the side of his face in your palm, and in an instant, he has set only one of your legs down, still holding the other just like you'd asked. His hand finds the small of your back, demure and slow in every way.

You lean in, eyes fluttering closed.

Your closed lids turn red, as if someone had just flashed a lantern in front of your eyes, and the rumble of a thunder follows suit. 

Damnit.

Do thunderstorms have a sixth sense for perfect timing?

Arthur sets your other leg on the ground as well, then looks out into the distance, then back at you. He looks as flustered as you've ever witnessed him so far, and the way he awkwardly clears his throat only adds to it.

"We should get outta here."

You nod. So much for swimming and everything else that comes with it.


	14. Chapter 14

Bigger, blukier raindrops fall on the car windows. The sound of peaceful rain is long gone — instead it sounds like someone is trying to grab your attention by throwing pebbles at the windows, which you certainly don't appreciate.

You shift in the leather seat, and the plastic bag below you rustles. It's the product of both yours and Arthur's ingenuity when it comes to protecting his car seats from the influence of water. While you can confirm it works, it's anything but comfortable. The bag sticks to your naked skin like plastic foil to a piece of meat in the fridge — not the most pleasant of sensations.

Arthur stretches, loosely lacing the fingers of his own two hands together as he sets his forearms on the steering wheel. The motion looks eerily similar to the languid stretching of a cat, if it weren't for his joints cracking. Arthur tugs the towel draped across his shoulders into place, almost self-consciously. You don't understand why — he's the literal epitome of perfection, save for the scars littered on his skin. 

It's been almost half an hour since...whatever the encounter in the lake was, and you don't know what to make of it. Arthur's just as clueless as you, or at least you hope so.

The silence between the two of you doesn't seem awkward, however, and you suppose his car radio is to be credited for that. 

He slips off the towel draped on his shoulders to rub it over his wet hair again.

You stare at him as he does, at the way the muscles on his arms flex from the quick motion. He catches you, but this time, he's the one to look away first.

"You cold?" He asks.

As brief as his glance at you might have been, it seems he has taken note of the goosebumps on your skin.

"I mean, I'm sure I wouldn't be if my hair would finally dry."

Arthur smiles with his eyes in something similar to sympathy, then reaches for the air conditioning. He switches it on, turns one of the knobs, then places his hand in front of the airflow, waiting for a while.

"How's this? Should be a little warm, and 's better than nothin' at all, I reckon."

The air hits your face when he retrieves his hand, lukewarm at best, but it's a welcome addition.

You run your fingers through your hair.

"Thank you."

Another thunder rumbles in the distance, though you can't remember having seen the lightning anywhere on the sky. But then again, you can't be blamed when Arthur is sitting right next to you, still stripped down to his underwear. It's quite the distraction.

"Storm's getting closer." He comments and you raise a brow.

"Thought it was already here."

"Nah, the rain's here, not the storm. It's still about a mile away, I think, if not a lil' more."

You don't do the most exemplary work at hiding your surprise, but if anything, Arthur seems to glow under your attention. Maybe it's not a bad thing after all. Arthur crosses his arms on top of the steering wheel, then rests his chin on top of them:.

"And how do you know that?" 

He smiles at that. "Well...when you see a lightning, you start countin' the seconds until you hear the thunder. Divide the seconds by five, n' that's roughly how many miles it's away."

Another lightning stretches across the sky in an impossibly intricate pattern. You start counting the seconds on your fingers, Arthur watches.

Six. And six divided by five would be-

"That's 1.2." He speaks up when he notices your thoughtful frown. "'Twas a little over seven seconds last time, so 's probably headed this way."

You smile back at him, though you don't quite know if it's because of the newly acquired information or because he was the one to tell you. But you know you quite like the way your chest feels fuzzy and warm.

"So you think we should keep moving?" You ask, though it's more of a way to fill the silence. "Where to?"

Arthur nods his head sideways, as if he isn't quite sure himself. His lips form a tight line. "We could go back to Armadillo. Find a dry place to stay. A motel maybe."

A motel sounds more than alluring after spending the past two or three nights either on the ground or on a car seat. You nod.

"Sounds good enough to me."

Arthur complies much quicker than you expect, and before you know it, his pickup truck is back on the road. You lean back into the seat, looking around at the scenery.

The desert during a storm has something strangely poetic about it, you'll admit.

"Maybe we shoulda waited a lil' longer." Arthur speaks up out of nowhere. An inquisitive tilt of your head is enough to demand further context from him. You're surprised at how fluent he has gotten at reading you in the last three days. Or maybe you're just easy to read.

"I mean, what if someone sees us?" He gestures at you, then himself. "Two half-naked maniacs dressed in almost nothin' but towels drivin' down the street?"

You reach behind your and Arthur's seats, finding both your and his bags of clothing. You feel around for a bit, fishing out a shirt and pants for yourself. You set those in your lap, then stretch across the CDs between the seats, extending your hand to look through Arthur's clothes at well. Finding one of his plain shirts proves to be an easy task. You throw it in his direction, then smirk. "Better get dressed, cowboy."

"You can talk." He retorts, but it lacks malice. If anything, his sentence is coated in playfulness. "You ain't the one holdin' the steering wheel."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

While he drives towards Armadillo, you slip on your clothes, then busy yourself by putting Arthur's knowledge to use. You continue counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, which he takes notice of, but doesn't comment about. You're getting further away from the storm, you realize, and notify Arthur of that. He says nothing, but nods and looks at the road with a gawky smile.

You don't know when exactly it happens, but you doze off after that, and jolt awake only once the truck halts.

To your relief, the downpour has degraded nothing but a sprinkle at this point.

"Sleep well?" Arthur's voice is slightly muffled by the shirt he is pulling down over his head. His hair is a mess after that, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care. Arthur shifts in the seat to adjust the clothing article around himself, then reaches behind his seat to look for pants as well. 

"Well enough." You smirk groggily, then nod at him. "Your hair's a mess."

"It is?" Arthur scrambles to adjust the rearview mirror towards himself, then attempts to brush some of the few stray hairs into place. To no avail, he almost looks even worse than before.

You giggle, but it's demure. Arthur's shoulders still tense at the sound.

"C'mere." It's anything but an order, yet Arthur complies immediately when you set your fingertips on his jaw and angle his head towards you.

You definitely could get used to running your hands through his soft hair, you realize as you brush it into place. Especially if he were on top of you, skin to skin, face buried in the crook of your neck as he—

You chase the thought from your mind.

Arthur, to your luck, doesn't notice your expression. He has closed his eyes. You huff in amusement at the thought of him being so flustered that he has no idea what to do with his gaze.

He peeks at you when you brush the last strand of hair back. He looks almost too perfect now. "What?"

"Nothing, just finished. You look better." You clarify, then remove your hand from his jaw. He holds the position for a millisecond longer, as if to dedicate even the remnants of your touch to memory, before pulling back into his seat. 

"Thanks." Arthur clears his throat awkwardly as you look outside the window.

Can you be blamed for not taking notice of the big, blatant neon sign that says "MOTEL" just outside the car? As long as you have Arthur beside you, it's a solid excuse.

He shifts in the seat, slipping on his pants while not bumping his knees against the steering wheel proves to be a bit of a challenge.

"You been here before?" You speak up.

"Just once." Arthur clarifies while zipping up his jeans. "Nothin' too fancy, but it's clean."

You hum, then start opening the rusty passenger seat door. "Let's go, then."


	15. Chapter 15

"That'd be sixty dollars for a room." The receptionist chews on her bubblegum dejectedly, her mouth hanging open as she looks at you, then at Arthur with apathy. With every passing second, your urge to take hold of her neck and wring the life out of her grows stronger and stronger. 

Alas, this is the only motel in Armadillo, so you have to refrain.

"How are the, uh, beds?" Arthur speaks up as he reaches inside the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. "'N does the price vary?"

"Nah, it's the same." She answers on a low, monotone voice, studying her nails. 

Arthur looks almost...dare you say, nervous as he looks at you and swallows.

"You choose." 

Of course he is going to shift the dread of picking an option onto you, being the gentleman he is. He does not attribute the qualities of a leader to himself, not now, nor usually, which you suppose comes from a good place. He'd much rather give up the position of power to you than cause you any discomfort. You find that kind of thoughtfulness lovely.

"We'll have the..." You begin, but lose your bravado the moment you open your mouth. "We...um..."

Silence ensues, the receptionist uses that as an opportunity to glance at her reflection in the dead computer screen on her desk and apply some lipstick. She over-lines her lips, but you suppose the Ronald McDonald-esque look suits her quite well and don't bother letting her know.

Instead you look at Arthur, gesture at her.

"You pick." You say, but he shakes his head.

"No." He answers, waves one hand dismissively. "I insist-"

"Christ almighty." The clerk refuses to wait, instead opens a drawer, fishes out a key, then tosses it at you. You manage to catch it, just about. "Here, separate beds. Now give me the money and get."

You suppose your luck of encountering good people (such as, say, Arthur, for example) had to be cut short by meeting someone like her.

"Talk about customer service." You mutter under your breath as Arthur gives her the demanded sum.

Her mouth hangs slightly agape, not from shock, but from not mustering the energy to close it. She looks at you with apathy that's coated with murder around the edges. You'd find it terrifying if it weren't for her ridiculously applied makeup. "I ain't here to entertain you, honey."

You suppress the urge tell her that, well, technically, clowns are supposed to entertain, and nod your head. You hum, though it sounds anything but approving.

Arthur turns around, then nods for you to accompany him.

"Jesus Christ, what's her issue?" You whisper while following him out of the lobby and towards the rooms. Arthur glances at the number engraved on the key, then at the numbers on the wooden doors before he speaks.

"Not just her. Staff's rude 'round here, since it's the only motel in town. Ain't never met a person who'd rather sleep on the dusty streets than in here, so they can afford it." He trots along the corridor, eyes skipping over each door before they return to you. He stops in his tracks. Arthur takes notice of your still upset expression and mends it with a weak but well-meaning smile. "Don't take it personally."

Arthur approaches the door with the number 45, starting to unlock it.

You stop by his side, leaning against the wall beside the door and cross your arms. "I won't take a Ronald McDonald-looking woman's words all too seriously, don't worry."

"Ronald McDonald? Nah." From the way his shoulders tense, it's obvious he's holding in a laugh. "Looked more like Bozo to me."

With that, the both of you cackle as you enter the room. 

It's not exactly spacious, but it offers up a small bathroom and two separate beds, only about half a meter apart. A table with an ancient, dusty TV is nestled in one of the corners. All in all it's not modern, nor of any opulent tastes, but, just as Arthur promised, it's clean.

You can live with that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You don't know how much time you spend by laying down, alternating between looking at the ceiling or at Arthur, who is in the same position as you on the other bed.

Hours pass, though they feel like minutes as the two of you joke and talk throughout the entire afternoon and evening. After that, growing hungry, the two of you decide to pay a visit to a supermarket for food and, upon Arthur's insistence and your eager approval, alcohol.

The evening ends up being quiet, in spite of the booze. You lay on your stomach on the mattress, head propped on one hand, plastic cup of amaretto loosely held in the other. Inebriated, you're a little bolder. Overwhelmed with affection, you don't even bother hiding it. You look over at Arthur's bed and him with a soft smile, soaking up every word he says as you sip on your drink and he nurses his whiskey.

He's telling you about past lovers, more specifically, Mary. About how her father insisted she doesn't marry him. How heartbroken he was over her remaining loyal to her family and turning him down.

But also how it ended up working in his favor, after all. You can't muster the boldness to ask how exactly, but something about the demure way his lips stretch into a smile and his gaze lingers on you tells you all you need to know.

You return the favor, feeding him information you'd only revealed to very few people about various topics. Past lovers, fears, anything that comes to mind and is somehow loosely connected to the subject that came before it, though you're sure your sober self could never figure out the correlation.

The evening becomes a back and forth of soul-baring and alcohol.

You can't quite pinpoint when you fall asleep, but the rasp in Arthur's voice isn't doing you any favors.

The last thing you can remember is the rustle of a blanket as it's being tugged over you.


	16. Chapter 16

You wake up to a thud and a string of whispered swearwords. The room is inky dark, just like the sky outside, but you can make out a few things if you squint.

First of which being the fact that Arthur is missing from his bed. Secondly, the fact that he's in the corner of the room, digging through his humbly packed suitcase, looking at you wide-eyedly over his shoulder.

"Sorry, 'd I wake ya?" The familiar voice rasps, low and rugged. Arthur straightens up, hands still wrist-deep inside the bag.

"Yeah, but it's..." You sit up, pushing the blanket off your torso. The air around you is unusually warm, but you can only assume that's because of New Austin itself. "It's alright. Something wrong?"

"No, I was just—" He looks down at his hands, them back at you. "Was havin' a bit of a headache. Didn't mean to wake ya."

A second later, he retrieved a foil of pills from the bag and pops them into his mouth.

You fold your legs against your chest, propping your elbow on your knee, then resting your cheek on the top of your palm as you look at Arthur. You're feeling bold — unusually so.

"I know a better cure for headaches." You speak up, though you have no proof to support your claim. You doubt Arthur cares.

"Do ya, now?" He responds with a lopsided smile that is meant to mirror your own. "And what would that be?"

You sling your legs over the edge of the bed, standing up languidly and slowly with calculated movements. It reminds Arthur of a sunrise, but it's much prettier. Especially considering the way you raise your hands above your head and stretch your entire body.

"Help me move my bed next to yours, I'll show you."

Arthur chokes on his breath. He doesn't know what shocks him most — the realization or your nonchalance. It takes him a good few seconds of mental recollection and a fierce blush to return to functionality, but he complies. Always eager to be of use, he rushes to one side of the bed and does most of the work in moving it so that it's glued to his.

Whoever's room is below theirs must be terribly unlucky.

You crawl on top of the mattresses, letting yourself fall on the pillow that belongs to you. He's still frozen beside the bed, looking as of he's weighing out his options. What if you're still under the influence of alcohol? You'd regret this in the morning, he's sure. 

You take the other pillow, the one Arthur had used, then place it on your lap before beckoning him closer. Confused, he approaches, a small huff escaping him when you coax him into setting his cheek on top of the pillow you've put on your stomach. His shoulder grazes the side of your left thigh, just barely. He's laying sideways across the bed, his feet dangling off the edge. 

Of course, he should've figured. Even drunk, you couldn't have possibly been that nonchalant about...well, Arthur doesn't know what exactly. But he loathes himself for the thoughts that have crossed his mind, almost enough to make his headache seem pleasant.

A hand combing through his hair stops his thoughts from racing, puts a definitive end to it all, leaves everything blank. It's almost terrifying how much power the simplest of caresses have on him, but he'd have it no other way. Arthur closes his eyes when you repeat the demure contact.

"Told you it'd work." The smirk on your face is victorious. There's the slightest hint of alcohol still on your breath, but then again, it's only been an hour since the two of you have supposedly gone to sleep. That explains a few things.

Arthur shifts to lay on his back. His breath catches in his throat when you trail your fingertips through his scruff.

"Thank you." He rasps. He doesn't know what for.

You huff in slight and loving amusement.

"Is it bad?" You decide to ask instead.

"What, the headache?" Arthur peeks at you with only one eye. "A walk in the park compared to chest pains."

You frown. Why chest pains, of all things?

In spite of the haze caused by the aftermaths of amaretto, your mind instantly rewinds to the day you'd met Arthur, and him mentioning some health issues he used to have a while back.

You approach the subject with caution and mindfulness, in spite of your nonchalance a few minutes back. Arthur likes the duality of your inebriation.

"What kind?" You ask. "Like heart attack chest pains, or asthma, or enterocolitis..."

"I think enterocolitis affects the stomach." 

You shake your head. Yes, now that he mentions it, it does. But that's not what you mean. He's avoiding the subject, you say.

Arthur's gaze looks you up and down, as if he cannot quite fathom why you'd care enough to ask. The lingering touch on his cheek begs to differ, a physical momentary proof that you care. "Tuberculosis." Arthur answers after a moment of hesitance. Both his eyes are open now, you note, and in search of a reaction.

"I'm sorry."

"What're you feelin' sorry for?" He has to pause to bring stability back to his voice when your hand brushes over his neck and goosebumps flood his skin. Benevolence is not something he encounters often in his life, and while you can't figure out why, the way he reacts to it is encouragement enough for you to continue. "I deserved every second of it."

Maybe he is the one who has deprived himself of it all, you wonder.

"I doubt that." You respond, though it sounds anything but argumentative. It's loving, kind.

"Got it while I was beatin' up some poor fellow that owed one of Dutch's friends money." He explains. Arthur's expression is hard and almost spiteful. It hurts to know it's aimed at himself. You try to coax it away by smoothing your palm over his left cheek. 

It works, to some extent. He places his hand over yours, which makes it seem much smaller.

"You've been nothing but good to me, Arthur." Your thumb rubs at his cheekbone, over the weathered skin. "You've been nothing but wonderful ever since the moment I've met you."

He likes to think he's not a hopeless romantic, but judging by the way his heart flutters from nothing but your words — god knows, he might be one after all.

Arthur is at a loss of words. He wants to argue, not with you, but with what you think he is, yet he's deemed silent and hopelessly wordless when you cup his jaw.

His head is buzzing so loudly, he almost fears you can hear it. Arthur's searching for something to say. Forgetting even the simplest of trivialities suddenly seems plausible when you lean over him, your breath tickling his lips.

Arthur lifts himself off the mattress on his elbows, mouth grazing yours, but not daring to take what you're offering him. 

He wonders how he's lived for so long and almost forgotten the rush of feeling another pair of lips on his own. It's an old sensation made new, but much more intense, it leaves him tingling all over, pressing upwards when you lick his bottom lip.

One of his hands finds your hair and buries itself in it. He's not demanding, not even in the subtlest of ways. His grip on you isn't strong nor firm, it's like he's holding something he's afraid might break if handled too roughly.

When you pull away, forehead rested against his, just as breathless as him, Arthur smirks.

"Guess it worked." He quips. "My headache's much better."

The breathless giggle that he receives as a response is sweeter than any love song he's heard.


	17. Chapter 17

Not waking up sore was a certainty before, but now, it's a blessing. A blessing you could get used to once again. The window to your room is tilted, just the way you'd left it the night before. It smells like petrichor and you're still in yesterday's clothes.

You look downwards, and notice with a smile that Arthur's sleeping on his stomach, right cheek pressed on the edge of his pillow and the groove between your ribs, also just the way you'd left him last night. Nothing's changed at all, aside from the rising sun.

Your fingers are buried in the hair on the top of his head, and he's loosely holding your hand in place by the forearm. You're tempted to comb through his locks. But you tell yourself to wait — Wouldn't it be a shame to disturb the idyllic picture right in front of you?

Besides, you figure, he deserves the sleep.

The morning sun peeks through the blinds and catches on his features. It makes you wonder how you'd ever settled for any company other than him. 

You stay like that for a few minutes, listening to his breath and taking in just how warm he is. Normally, you wouldn't mind, but seeing as the dry Armadillo air matches his temperature, you're starting to grow a little too hot. You decide to wake him in the most gentle way possible.

Arthur's lashes tremble when your fingertips trail through his hair and graze the back of his neck. His grip on your arm twitches, faltering, and then his eyes open.

It takes him a second or two to come back to reality, but it hits him like a train, judging by his expression. You whisper a raspy good morning and your fingertips dance on his skin.

He reciprocates the greeting, blinks a few times, quickly, a blush settling over his face and neck. Arthur tenses, moves to get up, placing his palms on the mattress and simultaneously muttering apologies. He wants to cut the affair short, though you can't tell why.

You urge him to return with a nod of your head. A moment of hesitance follows, but he obeys, sitting on his side of the bed, his knees grazing your side.

"What?" You joke. "You kissed me, but sleeping on me is where you draw the line?"

Arthur swallows thickly.

"You remember," He notes. His voice is low and sleep-addled — something you could definitely get used to. "And you don't uh...I mean, it don't bother you or anythin'?"

You shake your head. "Why would it?"

That was what the hurry was all about.

Poor dear, he thinks you don't remember, or worse, resent last night's events.

"Dunno, I always come up with new things to regret when I'm drunk." He shrugs, cracking his knuckles. "Figured kissin' me might be one o' yours."

Your heart breaks a little at that, but you don't show it. Pity is the last thing he needs, you think. Kindness and affection on the other hand, is something of which you have plenty to give.

"I wasn't drunk, then. Just tipsy." You argue and sit up. Arthur watches you curiously. "Besides, how could I regret something as lovely as that?"

His heart feels like it's swelling, but in the best way possible. He shifts closer to you, his hand hovers over your clothed hipbone. You climb on top of his lap, left forearm set on his wide shoulders. With your other hand, you encourage him to touch you.

It's appreciated, you realize. Not verbally, of course, but from the way he softly squeezes your hip.

You kiss his cheek, to which he exhales slowly against your neck. You could get used to this. To him.

If you haven't already, that is.

Arthur smiles lopsidedly. "So I reckon you wouldn't mind doing it again?"

Your lips graze his.

"Not at all."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You and Arthur decide to spend some time roaming New Austin, though you're not sure there's much to behold. It's more of a ghost town than anything else, but the lack of people feels somehow comforting with Arthur by your side. You hook your arm around his. He keeps his gaze glued to the path in front of you, but there's a smile on his face.

The dust below your feet has turned into mud that's slowly but surely drying after last night's storm. The sky is spotless, the air is somehow humid and dry at the same time.

You could get used to this.

A shop to your left grabs your attention. A vintage music shop. 

Sure, you're not exactly the kind of person to drag around a bulky walkman and a bag full of cassettes, but Arthur's music collection could use an upgrade. 

You give his arm a tap, then tug him towards the shop. He seems more fond of the idea than you'd expected, gives you a smile.

With that, the two of you enter, bell above the door ringing when the door opens. The shop is anything but tidy — dust is whirling up around you at even the most minute movements.

You give the cashier (a young man in his early twenties with bloodshot eyes) a friendly wave. He smiles at you widely.

Arthur retreats in the blues and country section of the shop, you make a beeline for rock. 

It's not that Arthur's music is boring per se, you think, but after more than two hours of nothing but tranquil songs, they become a little too much. He needs some diversity in his collection, some pep.

You pick out some of the classics that are more than a safe bet, then also grab something with jazz on your way towards the cashier.

You dump all the cassettes on the counter, and the cashier complies almost immediately, in spite of his rather fishy state. Taking that as his cue to return, Arthur makes his way towards you as well. He has picked something by Johnny Cash, which you definitely can get behind.

"You got an ancient car radio of your own back at home?" He asks with a nod at all the tapes the cashier has begun scanning. You shake your head.

"Don't even have a car of my own, silly."

Arthur frowns, looks back and forth between you and the cassettes. "Then what—"

You can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes what exactly it is that you're doing. It's kind of cute, to be honest.

"No no no, you ain't—" You ignore him, reach for your wallet. "—(y/n)!" He clasps his hand in your wrist just as you hand out the required sum.

"But I want to." You argue. "It's the least I can do."

If the slight disbelief is meant to discourage you from buying them for him, it's having quite the opposite effect. "The least you can do? Wh-"

"So should I, like, put these back, or are you, like, still buying them?"

You're one hundred percent sure the cashier is either high, drunk, hasn't slept in at least two days, or maybe all three of them.

"We'll take them." You say before Arthur can interject. He sighs, mumbles a defeated thank you. You smirk.

"Thank me when we'll be dancing to these."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how much time this chapter has taken me. I've had slight writer's block (which has luckily been cured by a Queen song) and have also been swarmed with last minute assignments. Sorry that the chapter was more of a filler than anything, and thank you for being so patient!


	18. Chapter 18

Arthur's not expressive in the old-fashioned, by-the-book way. In fact, you're convinced that all of his emotions have to go through a strict filter before the slightest trace of them is visible.

But there's ways to read him. He may not smile openly and widely unless there is a good reason to do so, but if you take the time to look closely enough, the left corner of his mouth quirks upwards just a little. A little finesse is needed to pick up on such details, but you find that noticing them comes more and more naturally as you spend time with him.

All you need as confirmation for the fact that he does find the songs you picked agreeable is the subtle nod of his head to match the rhythm of the melody.

Your trip to town had ended after he asked you to go to the motel first and start packing up, insisting he'd join you soon enough. After that was done and over with, Arthur helped you carry it all back to his car and suggested he take you to a place he discovered a few months back.

You'd tried asking what exactly he'd done while you had returned to the motel, but Arthur didn't budge giving away more than a half-smile.

So here you are now. Riding shotgun, the side of your head leaned against the window as you watch the world go by. The boiling sun outside makes you glad that Arthur's car has working air conditioning, in spite of its age.

"I figured you needed some pep in your assortment." You remark when his fingers start drumming against the steering wheel to the beat of 'Another one bites the dust'. 

"Don't know how I ain't ever noticed it b'fore." He returns the smile. "But then again, it feels like I ain't noticed a lotta things until..." His voice trails off, but his gaze lingers on you.

You know what he means, clarification is redundant.

But reciprocation might not be.

"Me too."

He smiles at that. Widely.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rio Bravo, as you discover the place is called, doesn't seem to offer up much. A steep cliff that leaves you nauseous if you dare look at the waves crashing against it way down below for too long. It's a quiet little place, a highway is nowhere to be seen. The road leading towards it is bumpy and difficult, which you've discovered the hard way.

Still. You can tell why Arthur likes this spot.

"May not look like too much, but it will." He says when he pries open the rusty car door for you. "Soon enough."

When you get out, Arthur kneels on the seat to turn off the car radio, but you stop him before he can. When he raises an eyebrow questioningly, you turn up the music, leaving the door open and gesturing for him to follow you.

"Everything's just a little better with some tunes, don't you think?" He says nothing, but by the way he huffs in slight amusement, you can tell he agrees. You trot over towards the edge of the ridge. "You wanna set up the tent?"

"Nah, it ain't supposed to rain tonight."

"Ah, we've graduated to sleeping on the grass?"

He smirks at that. "You'll see."

You give him an agog glance at that, but can't learn anything new from his expression. A surprise it shall be, then. You turn towards the vast sea. Arthur moseys up to your side, stops in his tracks right next to you. His arm grazes your shoulder, an insinuation of a touch, which you understand the meaning of almost immediately. Complying comes even more naturally.

You lean against him more bodily, resting your head on his shoulder. Arthur holds you closer, albeit only after a reluctant placement of his hand on your waist. 

His breaths are slow and rhythmic, his heart, not so much. If someone would've told you you could put Arthur Morgan in such a state a week ago, you would've laughed. Now you're laughing at yourself, but only internally. You'd hate to ruin the moment with the sudden realization that your past version couldn't have been any more wrong about Arthur. And that you even thought about not turning up to John's party. Foolish little thing you were, only a mere few days ago.

Foolish little thing you still are, you think, But that only becomes clear after Arthur holds you just a little bit closer.

"It's nice." You speak up, and he hums.

"The place or this?" He gives your waist a reverent stroke of his thumb.

You smile up at him. "Both."

Arthur's fingertips graze your cheek. You close your eyes, listen to the crashing waves and the seemingly distant song playing from the car radio. Judging by the slow, lighthearted chords, it's something romantic.

Which reminds you.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find Arthur staring at you lovingly, in a way that's familiar. He stopped being careful and reserved with his glances — you take it as a good sign. Your hand grazes the one he's set on your cheek, fingers intertwine.

"May I have this dance?" You ask.

Pleasant surprise looks quite lovely on him.

"Thought I was supposed to ask." He wisecracks. His cackle is something you can see yourself wanting to listen to every morning. 

"The song would've ended before you did." 

Poking fun at him is...as fun as the term itself implies. Arthur gives and impish smile and finds himself pressing closer to your frame. Your arms loop around his neck, his hands find your hips. "Maybe."

It feels like your cheek was made to fit the groove between his shoulder and neck. Arthur starts a languid pace to match the song, a simple back and forth that occupies only the back of your mind. It's simple to follow and stable, but fluent. You'll gladly take it over any other intricacy.

When Arthur lets go of you to spin you around, you giggle like a schoolgirl, then find that you rush the slow spin to return to his arms.

"Quite the dancer, ain't you?" Arthur whispers. He's caught in the dilemma of wanting to quip, but not wanting to interrupt the song. His compromise is perfect, you think — his low, shushed voice leaves you tingling all over.

"Not too bad yourself." You respond. Your face returns to his neck, and he's rewarded with a demure kiss to the spot where his ear meets his jaw.

In your good opinion, the sound he makes surpasses any kind of music.


	19. Chapter 19

"And no peakin', are we clear?" 

Arthur's voice sounds slightly distant, but he's just a few meters away, behind you. Your smile grazes your palms, your fingers linger over your closed eyes.

"And what if I do anyway?" You ask, and hear him sigh. Not in exasperation, of course, but a combination between amusement and frustration. "What are you going to do about that, Mister Morgan?"

"I'll figure somethin' out. Now, don't ruin the surprise, y'hear?"

Temptation is not an easy foe to defeat, and you're still struggling with it when you give him an answer.

"Alright, fine."

Objects behind you shuffle, it sounds like he's moving crates, boxes, bags, and anything in-between.

"Are you emptying your entire truck or what?" You're still loyal to your promise, eyes covered and turned away from where Arthur currently is. He still stops to make sure of it.

"You'll see." He says again. The rustling of fabric follows, though you don't have the smallest clue about what exactly to make of it. 

It goes on for at least a minute, maybe two. By the time Arthur huffs in a way that insinuates satisfaction, you're dying of curiosity.

"You done?"

"Yeah, I—" He barely gets past the vowel before you spin on your heels and glance at him.

Your joke had a grain of truth in it. Arthur did in fact empty the back of his truck: all his belongings have been piled up neatly just a meter or two away, and replaced with what seems to be a flurry of...bedsheets?

Your chest tightens in a pleasant way: Arthur Morgan truly is a romantic at heart. An explanation is unneeded, but he provides it regardless, which makes your smile widen a fraction.

"The stars are real pretty 'round here, n...well, I figured—" He gestures at the admittedly quite invitingly looking mess of pillows and blankets. "I...lookin' at it now, guess I shoulda asked first instead of all the secrecy. 'F you don't like it I can just—"

Your hand finds his wrist, your lips his collarbone. "It's lovely," You say so demurely that it makes his heart flutter. Arthur looks downwards, at the tips of his shoes, failing at concealing what is a slight blush. You give his wrist a lingering tug towards the bed of his truck. "Now, you didn't set it up for us to stare at it, did you, Arthur? C'mon."

Before he knows it, you've kicked off your shoes and flopped onto the flurry of sheets. Arthur follows, crawls up next to you. It occurs to you that you've never seen so much joy and excitement etched into his face. If you thought he'd seemed angelic at dawn in John's front yard, he looks nothing short of divine bathed in the golden hour rays, nestled between the satiny sheets, wreathed in smiles.

You're not any different yourself. Arthur teaches out, trails his fingertips over the side of your face so gently that you can't even dream of feeling the roughness of his skin. You're surprised in the best and most familiar of ways. Judging by his expression, he wasn't aware he could muster such gentleness either.

"I been—" He cuts himself off before he can get anything else out, you figure he's still looking for the right words. A soft, encouraging hum from you eases his mind. "'S stupid, but...I been thinkin' about doin' this for...a really long time."

"For how long?" You ask. Arthur swallows thickly, gives you a weak smile when you shift closer to accommodate the minute stroking of his thumb on your cheekbone. 

He shakes his head. "Too long." Arthur's blush spreads to his collarbone, which has got to be one of the most precious sights in the world: a man so big he could crush you with his bare hands, blushing, at your mercy. You lean forward to kiss his stubbled cheek.

“I’ve been thinking about something like this too.” Arthur must’ve expected something else as answer, maybe even mockery, you realize when he exhales softly and relaxes at your words. He sits up. “And not to toot my own horn here, but I can identify some constellations.”

“Think you can teach me?” Arthur asks. There’s so much genuine curiosity in his voice that it makes your heart melt. It’s impossible to deny such a request. You sit up as well, legs crossed, and lean against his side. He’s warm, so much so you’d considered it uncomfortable if it weren’t for the setting sun and progressively chilly air.

“Of course.” Arthur smiles at your response and tilts his head back, already on the lookout for bright dots on the still orange sky. It might be a little too soon for that, you think, and he’s obviously aware of it as well once he looks up. Arthur shifts to stare off into the horizon, looking borderline embarrassed of his eagerness. You seek to fix that: you venture to his lap, finding the hand he’s set there and giving it a loving squeeze. “Just gotta wait until it gets a little darker.”

He nods his head.

Waiting out the dawn doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all, especially with him so close beside you. Silence ensues, though you can’t bring yourself to dislike it. It’s light and comfortable, just like the summer night air.

“You ever think about—“ Arthur pauses thoughtfully. You lift your head from his shoulder to let him know he has your attention. “How every star is a sunset somewhere? Gets me feelin’…a little less lonely, sometimes when I’m alone out here. And much smaller, too.”

Your heart warms at his words. His mind, you think, in spite of how it can be dismissed as simple if one doesn’t bother to dig just a little deeper, is truly brilliant in the most unexpected of ways.

“Never did.” You admit. “But now that you mention it…well, I’m glad I got to watch this exact sunset, on earth, with you.”

The wide grin on his face surpasses any form of sunlight.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter contains mature content/smut!
> 
> Also, high honor Arthur is a subby switch, and I don't take constructive criticism on that.

"It's really easy to get confused, since some planets can also look like stars at first glance. The thumb rule to telling them apart is that stars twinkle, while the light that bounces off of planets is pretty consistent, so those don't." Arthur nods at your words, eyes fixated on the sky. 

Your head is laid on his clavicle, hand splayed on his chest, your legs tangled with his. You note that he's reacting more positively to physical contact now, which puts a smile on your face.

"So how 'bout that one?" He points upwards, arm outstretched. You shift closer to him, tucking your head under his chin, lips brushing over his neck as you try to figure out the answer to his question. Arthur tenses, which is a problem easily solved by pressing a butterfly kiss to his jaw.

A stuttering breath escapes his lungs, then he goes slack once again. He's getting used to you, to your touch, your words, and everything else that comes with affection. It's not an easy process, and reassurance is needed plentifully — but you'd have it no other way. Relearning is often just as tough as starting with a blank slate.

"What would you say it is?" You whisper. He blinks a few times, shrugs only with his left shoulder, the one that's not tucked under your head. 

"Planet, I reckon?"

You follow his finger with your gaze, then give a nod. Your hair tickles Arthur's jaw, which earns you the exquisite sound of a hybrid between a hum and a chuckle from him.

"It is." You confirm; he smiles, squeezes your frame against his chest lightly. "Jupiter, I think."

Arthur exhales in what seems to be amusement, then closes his eyes. You know that look, a little too well by now. He's about to say something to put himself down in a joking manner. But that doesn't mean you'll have it. "You're too smart for the likes o' me."

"Nonsense." You respond, sitting up, his pelvis between your legs and hands braced on top of his diaphragm. "You just don't give yourself enough credit, Arthur."

"Thought that wasn't a good thing to do." He clarifies, then props his elbows behind himself to sit up. "Takin' credit for everythin'."

"Obviously not. But treating yourself like your worst enemy is not going to do you any favors either, Arthur."

He looks at you like you've revealed a great secret to him, but shrugs it off just as quickly with a shake of his head. You can't help but wonder who's hammered all those awful thoughts about himself into his brain, and wish to deliver a kick in the privates to that person. But you don't dare ask for names. Not yet.

"It matter that much to you?" His words aren't spoken in a defensive manner, but in a genuinely curious one. He can't believe you care, even after everything that happened, he's taking nothing for granted. Arthur lies back onto the blankets, and his left hand travels to your hip again. He doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold, just acknowledges your presence. You grasp his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers. A smile shimmies over his face.

"Of course." You answer, squeezing his hand. Arthur looks at you like you're some form of divine blessing, especially when you lean over him, bracing your palms beside his head and kissing him like he deserves all the goodness in the world.

Arthur responds with reverence, lips brushing against yours like he wants to spoil you with every sweet word out there, but has lost his voice. His arms hold you against him, and you feel like your bodies are two puzzle pieces made to fit together. All is right in the world.

You part, forehead rested against his as you catch your breath. Arthur shifts to sit and holds you flush against him on his lap, warm, so warm in the chilly summer night air.

"I..." His voice trails off, you've rendered him speechless. He can't say he doesn't like it, cannot claim that it doesn't feel heavenly to be at a loss of words, even thoughts.

Your kiss returns with even more force, your tongue over his lower lip a factual proof that he deserves to be loved truthfully and unapologetically — him denying you entrance would be a crime. 

Your teeth collide a bit clumsily at first, but Arthur would have it no other way. It reminds him that he's not the only one that's flawed, in spite of what he's inclined to believe sometimes.

You gasp softly when his fingertips slide under your shirt, staying just below your ribs. Arthur pulls away, both his hands and his lips, and looks at you apologetically.

"Didn't notice I— 'M sorry if I..."

You grasp his wrists and guide them back to your torso, slipping them under your shirt, grazing his rough palms over your sides. They move up, up, up, calloused skin brushing over your soft one so considerately that you can't help but bask in it.

"I want this, Arthur." You clarify, then kiss his cheek. It's warmer than the rest of his body, and you're certain it's a lovely red too, even though it's impossible to see in the starlight.

"Me too." He answers, so eager that it makes you giggle. Arthur pulls you closer, hides his face in-between your shoulder and neck as he kisses and nips the skin. "Just wasn't sure 'f you did, and I didn't...didn't wanna force you, or..."

You loop your arms around his neck, grinding down your hips against him. His hold on you turns iron-like for a second, then his hands slide up your torso, over your back, raking up your shirt slowly. You comply, take it off as eagerly as he'd approved just mere seconds ago.

The second your shirt is off, Arthur plants kisses on any bit of skin he can find, but dwells on your collarbone and the top of your breasts. He wants to assure you that your body is treasured, you appreciate that. You comb your fingers through his hair as he takes his time exploring you — that's all the encouragement he needs.

He trails his kisses up the middle of your abdomen, over your sternum, the column of your neck, then returns to your lips. Arthur's tongue glides over your bottom lip, not demanding, but asking. Who are you to deny him what he needs?

He takes another kiss, more boldly this time, but never with greed. You grasp the collar of his shirt and start working on the first few buttons. Too caught up in the breathtaking kiss, he barely notices at all until you run your fingers over the hair on his chest.

Arthur doesn't think twice about making himself useful and helps you unbutton his flannel shirt. He shudders when you run your hands over his muscular shoulders to slip it off of him entirely.

He's a sight to behold. Somehow just the way you imagined him — muscular and broad in every single way, but with enough particularities to make exploring him enticing. Every blemish holds a story.

"You're very handsome." You say sincerely, even though you're very aware that he might not believe it. But it's the truth. He's gorgeous, at least to you.

You don't waste a second, raking your palms over his strong, barreled chest and abdomen, following the trail of progressively darkening hair. Your hand stops at his belt and you press a kiss to his cheek.

"This okay?"

Arthur nods, then helps you undo his jeans before kicking them off. You cup your hand over the visible bulge in his boxers, earning an immediate reaction. His body reels forward, seeking the contact almost desperately, his motion garnished with a low moan of pleasure. You could get used to hearing the lovely strain in his voice as he tries to stay silent. 

Stifled sounds are a distant dream when you slip your hand inside his underwear and take him in your hand. He's soft and warm to the touch, average length but with quite the girth on him. Arthur fists the linen below him, knuckles going white as he struggles to not disrupt the constant and steady pace you've set. 

"Be as loud as you like." You encourage him, quickening the rhythm of your strokes. "There's no one here, and I'd love to hear your pretty voice."

He complies, always does. You suspect part of him craves to be ordered around, but you're not about to take advantage of that. Not too much, anyways.

Discovering the sensitive spots on him proves to be a particularly fun sport, for the both of you. After a few minutes of you gradually picking up the pace, Arthur seizes your wrist and urges you to a halt.

"Ladies first." He says, a combination between quipping and seriousness, you know he means it. And that he means well. He's breathless, face and chest flushed, voice raw from his previous moans. You think he's perfect, but he'd never believe you if you were to say it out loud. Maybe one day you will manage to change that, but until then you can at least dream.

"May I?" His index and middle fingers hook around the waistband of your pants, he gives them a meaningful tug. You don't give a verbal answer, only rush to take them off yourself. Arthur huffs in amusement and pleasant surprise, then brings his hand to your core. He proceeds just like you have, gives you a second to get used to his touch before moving away your underwear. He strokes you in a way that's familiar and tender, proud smile on his face when you start grinding down onto his hand with a whimper.

"Good girl, that's it." 

You hold onto him like he's made of solid rock and you're a leaf in the wind, he loves it. Arthur likes to be considered useful in whatever way he can.

His touch feels like a cold winter day spent in front of a chimney. Comforting and good, heat starts lapping at your stomach when he slips his fingers inside you.

Breathy moans bubble up in your throat and evade before you can hope to stop them, your lungs feel tight and warm. You can't breathe properly, but in a good way. Arthur takes his time, experimenting just like you have, figuring out what works best in the favor of your pleasure. He's quick and logical with his tactics, immediately switching to another approach if the one he's using doesn't provide enough satisfying results. Your knees are trembling before you know it.

"You're close, ain't you?" You hold back a breathy sigh, give a nod instead. Arthur smiles softly, then doubles his efforts. "Come on, then."

Your peak is intense, electrifying, in spite of the rather languid pace of his fingers. Arthur knows what he's doing, coaxes every squeak and whimper of pleasure out of you that he can, practically drinks them up. He holds you through it all, it feels like you've known him for decades.

When he pulls his hand away you shudder and he offers up a very self-satisfied smirk. 

"That was...absolutely perfect." Your voice can drive him crazy, low and airy like that. He grins at that, and you press a loving kiss to his cheek. "Your turn."

You reach downwards, caressing his abdomen before you take him in your hand again. You don't bother with teasing — he's waited and proven his patience quite enough. In your good opinion, Arthur deserves a reward. 

You sink down on his length, and it doesn't take much longer from there. His stretch is glorious, you can't help but get a little carried away. He thrusts up into you to match the rhythm you've started. Arthur is considerate with his thrusts, knows how to handle himself and avoid hurting you, it's a quick but languid affair. 

"You feel wonderful." You praise when his thrusts falter, and he jolts at your words. You hold back a smirk at your discovery.

He reaches his peak sometime within the next few minutes, you don't remember when. It's hazy at best, but when he pulls out, teetering over the edge, you reach down and finish him off before he can. Arthur spills over your thighs and wrist, you whisper sweet praise in his ear all the way through it. His expression is a marvelous sight to behold.

Boneless, Arthur lies back, and makes sure to pull you flush against his chest. You sigh in satisfaction, he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

You giggle press a kiss to his neck.

"I...was that alright? 'S been a while." He admits sheepishly. You smile in a similar manner — it's comforting to him.

"It was more than alright. Good enough to have again. Preferably multiple times."

A low chuckle rumbles in his throat at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we are! This chapter is dedicated to some of my friends (Jen & Vale) that predicted car sex happening back when I'd just started this booklet, so yes. You were right. You were right all along, damnit.


	21. Chapter 21

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the feeling of soft bedsheets below you. A campfire crackles nearby, sunlight warms your skin. Heaven.

"G'mornin'."

Your legs feel sore when you try to sit up, but you don't complain. It's a welcome souvenir from last night.

"Hey." You respond, airy lilt to your voice. Arthur leans over the side of his truck, one elbow set on it, the other hand outstretched towards you, holding a cup of coffee. You're convinced he's an angel in a man's body.

You can't help but let out a half-pained huff when you sit up to take the beverage from him. Arthur says nothing but watches with a glint in his eye, you're inclined to agree with the sentiment he's trying to conceal.

"Thank you." You say before bringing the coffee to your lips.

"No problem." Arthur smiles sincerely, then goes to retrieve a cup for himself. "How you feelin'?"

"Never been better." You pat the space beside you, it's the unspoken invitation he'd been craving. Arthur kicks off his shoes and crawls up to you before you can blink twice. You nestle up against his side, set your head on his shoulder. You hold your coffee in your lap, so does he.

Birds chirp, waves clash against the cliff, the wind combs through your hair. You take a minute or two to pick apart every single sensation, then take a sip of the coffee. 

"And to think I almost didn't—" Arthur speaks up, but then cuts himself off, like he feels bad for potentially ruining the moment. As if he could.

"Didn't what?" You ask softly, a mere invitation to reveal what's on his mind, but not a demand. Arthur's not used to a lack of orders, but he finds that coaxing is much more pleasant to listen to than demands.

"Didn't go. To John's party. I wanted to jus' leave, but I figured him 'n Abigail could use some help. My lord, I wouldn't've seen somethin' like this happenin' in a thousand years."

"So you're a firm believer in fate, now?"

"What, you go on a week long trip with every stranger you meet at a house party?"

You snicker quietly, give his shoulder a light push. "Only with the ones I really like." 

He downs his cup of coffee, then sets it on the roof of his pickup truck. Arthur looks at you with a smirk that emanates cheekiness, and you find yourself thrilled with the confidence he seems to be gaining. "That so?" He asks. "Ain't inclined to believe ya liked me from the very beginning."

"Well, you can dream." You respond on a similar tone, which leaves him grinning. "But I really did find you...agreeable from the moment I first saw you. Aside from that mean frown of yours." You flick his forehead. Arthur laughs, takes a soft hold of your wrist. He guides your hand to his cheek, you let him, cup your palm over his stubbled jaw. 

"Not my fault I ain't too fond of parties."

"And that you're so grumpy." You add, and he shakes his head in defeat.

Arthur hums, wraps one arm around your waist. "When I first saw you, I thought you'd be too stuck-up to even spare me a glance."

"Wha— hey!" You punch his shoulder gently, he guffaws. "Stuck-up? Really?"

"Didn't say my assumption turned out to be true." Arthur defends himself, you digress. He's not good with words, but in a way that's endearing. 

"For your information, I spared you more than a few glances." You say matter-of-factly, and earn yourself a surprised huff.

"If I didn't know ya any better, I'd say ya were tryin' to blow smoke."

You shift closer, finish off your coffee. Arthur sets your empty cup beside his. When you climb onto his lap, his expression looks nothing short of a man marveling at something divine. "Good thing you do know me better."

"Yeah." Arthur comments as you press your lips to his in a slow but intense kiss.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Arthur slams your car door shut after an attempt of yours to close it gently fails. You hear him grumble about fixing it as he walks around his truck, then plops down onto the driver's seat.

You set your hands on your knees, lean forwards, watch him with an inquisitive look. "Where to now?"

"Wish I could let ya pick, but I— 'M afraid we should get back." Arthur sighs and cracks his knuckles. "Got some projects that need finishin' by Monday, back at home. I wish we—"

You give his forearm a squeeze. "Hey, don't worry. This was all magical, Arthur. I knew it couldn't last forever." 

Arthur doesn't say anything after that, but you can tell that he's thankful for your understanding. Not that he need be — you figure it's the decent thing to do. As lovely as it has been, at the end of the day (or week, in this case) the both of you still have responsibilities. 

You begin to exchange little stories, him telling you how one of his clients is driving him wild with their unreasonable demands, and you bringing in some anecdotes of yours in exchange. 

Time crawls by, and before you know it it's noon. Every second spent with him seems to progressively increase in value, but also slip through your fingers like liquid gold.

You never thought something could be both wonderful and terrifying at the same time. You dread to think what will happen after your trip is over. Will the two of you fall off? You haven't even asked for his phone number, but then again, he hasn't either.

Maybe Arthur doesn't even want to see you again. Sure, he doesn't seem like the kind of person that has a soft spot for one time affairs of the heart, but you could be wrong. It suddenly feels like all the knowledge you've gained about reading his demeanor has vanished.

"Was supposed t' make a left here, ain't that so?"

You blink in surprise, focus on your surroundings. Christ, you're in Blackwater already. Cars are driving past you, around you, the city is busy and buzzing, just like your thoughts. Had you been that caught up in your anxiety?

"Um, yeah, yeah. Think so."

"You think?" Arthur borderline teases, but it's still well-meaning. His tone mends your anxiety a little, it's familiar. Warm. "Something on your mind?"

He's thoughtful, more directly so now that you've grown closer. You hope you don't squander that.

"Yeah, no. No, I'm good."

Arthur doesn't believe a word, but he doesn't press the issue either. You can't tell if you appreciate that or not.

The truck halts. 

"This the place? I reckon so."

You glance out the window and have to give him bonus points for his impressive orientation skills. 

You nod.

Arthur parks the car, then darts out of it to open the door for you, always the rugged gentleman. You smile, but part of you can't help but wonder if this is the last time it's going to happen.

Quite stupid to think how attached you've grown not only to him, but all the little things he does. It's pathetically bittersweet.

"C'mon princess, I'll carry it up the stairs for ya. As a partin' gift." Arthur lifts your suitcase off the ground, then nods for you to enter the stairwell. 

You progress upwards, towards your apartment in silence, the occasional whispered cuss from Arthur interrupting it when he bumps your luggage against something.

You stop at your front door, but hesitate to reach for the keys. Not for longer than a second, you wouldn't want to keep Arthur waiting.

"Here ya are." He speaks up as he sets your suitcase beside you.

You give him a weak thank you, then step inside your humble apartment. It seems awfully small after the vastness of the wild.

He follows, stops right in front of the door. As always, Arthur is careful not to overstep any boundaries unless given permission.

"(Y/n)? I was uh...wonderin'. You don't gotta say yes, but I was thinkin' about, maybe, um..." He scratches the nape of his neck. "I dunno, about makin' dinner next Friday."

You turn around, glance at him over your shoulder and raise a brow. "You're skipping every dinner until next Friday?"

"Ah, what— No, no. Christ, no." He sighs, runs a hand through his hair then crosses his arms. You have to hold back a giggle. "I meant like...a big dinner. 'Nough for two people. I could...come pick you up, whenever you're comfortable. If you're comfortable."

Your worries have been in vain. You've never felt quite as blissful and simultaneously idiotic as now.

You smile, turn around to face him. "Sounds like a plan to me, Arthur."

"Good." He returns the smile, you hold back the urge to kiss him. "How's seven in the evenin' sound?"

You nod. "Perfect."

He manages to summon the courage to step forward and plant a quick peck on your lips. It's not bittersweet in any way: you know it won't be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support on this fic!! It has been such a lovely ride, and I want to thank everyone that tagged along, because I had a blast writing it. 
> 
> The idea for this fic actually found me on new year's eve (so on the 31st of December 2018) while listening to "Shotgun" by George Ezra, but was quickly dismissed. I figured it was a fun idea to play around with, but didn't think much of it, not then. I remember having a few loosely correlating thoughts with it from that moment on — just random scenes that would later find their place in the plot of this booklet — but it wasn't until around very late March 2019 that I actually decided to make this a full-fledged fic.
> 
> The rest is history, thanks to each and every one of you. Thank you♥️
> 
> This work was inspired by   
> "Jackie and Wilson" — Hozier  
> "Fears" — Michigander  
> "Shotgun" — George Ezra


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